


The Deal

by julien (julie)



Series: The Deal / Juliet is Bleeding [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e17 The Deal, Gen, Novelization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-05-10
Updated: 1997-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/julien
Summary: The robbery of a church poor-box leads to a confrontation between Detective Ray Vecchio and mobster Frank Zuko – who’ve been enemies since their school years.
Series: The Deal / Juliet is Bleeding [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642996
Kudos: 2





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** A novelization of episode 117 _The Deal_. Back when I had an agent, I submitted this to Boxtree - with no luck! 
> 
> **First published:** along with a novelization of _Juliet is Bleeding_ as a one-off zine on 10 May 1997.

♦

St Michael’s was one of the few churches in Chicago that was left unlocked throughout the day, available for whatever spiritual sustenance the members of its community might require. Available for shelter on a cold day, too, though it was often a struggle to pay the resulting heating bill. The wooden pews, cunningly warmed by pipes running under each of the seats, attracted the homeless and the poor to the church for reasons more physical than spiritual, but Father Behan considered that no bad thing despite the complaints of some of the more well-to-do members of the parish. The priest understood the latter group’s fear of being too inclusive – however, he simply and quietly refused to cater to it. After all, a church was first and foremost an assembled community, and only secondarily considered as the building in which that community gathered. 

And so the church remained available to all the incredible variety of people that this neighborhood contained, despite the vulnerability that openness brought with it. There were riches here, of course, even though St Michael’s was a relatively humble church in a parish with few resources and a diminishing assembly – and Behan suspected that his more exclusive parishioners were mostly being protective of the church’s worldly wealth. 

The church’s assembly was expanding rather than diminishing this morning, Father Behan was delighted to find. He watched as a giggle of colorful young ladies dashed past him in groups of twos and threes, heading for the choir loft with more enthusiasm than he’d seen in many a long year. ‘It is a miracle, surely!’ the priest declared. 

Detective Ray Vecchio stood beside him. The policeman was quite new to St Michael’s – though he had lived in this neighborhood all his life, he and his family used to attend a different church. Father Behan was given to understand there had been some troubles or complexities to do with Ray’s own father, now deceased, though the details were glossed over by the Detective and tactfully let go by the priest. However, now he was here, Vecchio was making every effort to be of use. The man apparently considered himself quite the operator. 

As the girls continued to stream past, Behan said, ‘We’ve never had so many people wanting to join our choir. You’ve done a fine thing, Raymond.’ 

‘Ah, think nothing of it, Father,’ the cop smoothly replied. ‘I just pulled out my little black book, made a few calls, and of course they were all happy to oblige.’ Ray reached out to one of the young women. ‘Ursula, thanks for coming…’ 

‘Yeah, yeah.’ The girl escaped Ray’s grasp with a practiced shrug and twist, and then for good measure pushed him away. ‘Take a hike.’ She sped on down the narrow corridor. 

Ray Vecchio did not let the rejection appear to faze him. ‘All right,’ he called after her, ‘we’ll talk later.’ 

This sounded like wishful thinking to the priest. Despite this evidence of the wondrous contents of Ray’s little black book, Behan assumed Vecchio was lonelier and less successful with women than he liked people to know. All of which was unfortunate, for Ray Vecchio had a good heart and a friendly nature. On the surface, yes, Behan could understand that the cop might not be initially considered as attractive – the man was losing his hair before his time, and his features were striking rather than well-formed. However, beneath the bluster and the attitudes, Vecchio had many less obvious but more worthy qualities. One day even Ray Vecchio himself might become convinced of that. 

Meanwhile, Father Behan was left to draw the conclusion that, although the ladies had been gathered through Ray’s collection of phone numbers, it was the cop’s patently handsome and charmingly polite friend they were here for. 

Ray Vecchio turned away and led the priest through into the choir loft, which was rapidly filling up. The cop surveyed the situation. Well, at least one half of the loft was filling up, and no prizes for guessing which half – Ray’s lovely colorful friends were all gathering around the Mountie. The only exceptions to this gathering instinct were the few rather dowdier women who were regular choir members. The cop smiled. He loved it when a plan came together. 

As far as Ray was concerned, St Michael’s was a genuine and unexpected haven. It had always pleased Ray’s father, Salvatore Vecchio, to attend a different church with his family, though Ray had no idea why. And, for the oldest Vecchio child, anything to do with his father still felt a little tainted, no matter that Sal had died almost six years ago. So finding this place of compassion, which was in fact his own parish’s church and therefore actually belonged to Ray in a very real way – discovering this place of worship that his Ma and his sister Francesca already loved – stumbling into this place of community where even Fraser the non-Catholic felt welcome – finding St Michael’s was a blessing to Ray Vecchio. 

In return for this blessing, Ray was ready, willing and able to help in any way the church required. When he’d heard Father Behan talk sorrowfully about the dwindling numbers of the choir, Ray had immediately begun formulating strategies. He had to admit he hadn’t discussed the finer details of this particular plan with Fraser, but as the Mountie considered Behan to be a worthy friend, Ray had felt certain of Fraser’s co-operation. In fact, co-operating was one of the things the Mountie did best, and Ray believed a man should always play to his strengths. 

And there was Fraser, obediently – not to mention co-operatively – sitting in the front row of the choir loft, amidst all those lovely women. Yes, Ray reflected, this plan had been a resounding success. 

Constable Benton Fraser was feeling somewhat under siege. A large number of Ray’s acquaintances surrounded him, pressing in close as if it was imperative that the entire choir fill the northern pews, leaving the southern ones empty. A large number of Ray’s female acquaintances, Fraser noted. No wonder Ray had decided to try to recruit his friend – the choir was noticeably lacking in tenors, baritones and basses. 

More jockeying for position. Fraser could not remain unaware that he was the focus of it, even though it made no sense to him, and he had to admit he found it all a little daunting. Women in Chicago could be rather… bold. It was something, perhaps, that he must endeavor to grow accustomed to. Though Fraser had to admit that, to his own confusion and shame, sometimes it was this kind of behavior that featured high on the list of his reasons for wanting to return to the Territories. 

‘Out of my way.’ A newcomer made the effort necessary to sit just behind him, and caught his attention with a rather familiar caress of his shoulder. ‘Hi, Benton…’ He turned to greet her with a polite and friendly smile – which was how any human being deserved to be greeted, though Fraser had recently grown wary of giving misleading impressions through these simple courtesies. On brief examination Fraser found that, though this woman obviously knew his name, he was almost certain he’d never been introduced to her. 

The second woman to Fraser’s right asserted, ‘This is _my_ seat.’ She gave a nervous laugh as if the matter was of no consequence, though her tones indicated otherwise. ‘I sit here every week.’ 

The woman crushed in between her and Fraser replied, ‘Well, this week it’s mine.’ 

‘Would you like to borrow my pitch pipe?’ the woman on Fraser’s left asked. 

‘Oh, well,’ Fraser said as evenly as he could, ‘thank you for the offer, but I –’ 

The next woman along interrupted them. ‘Didn’t I see you at the church singles dance the other night?’ 

‘Actually, I’m not part of this congregation,’ he informed her. ‘My friend and I just stopped by to pay Father Behan a visit – or so I thought.’ Fraser turned in his seat again, with the intention of locating Ray, and discovered a shapely knee under his palm instead of the back of the pew. He looked up at the knee’s owner, who appeared rather less embarrassed by this inadvertent contact than Fraser himself. ‘Sorry,’ he said. Though she didn’t seem to require an apology, Fraser was indeed sorry. 

And there was Ray Vecchio, standing up the back of the choir loft with Father Behan, and looking rather pleased with himself. He offered Fraser the encouragement of a thumbs up – Fraser nodded in acknowledgment, and bleakly turned to face the front again. Apparently there was to be no rescue, and he could see no acceptable way to escape. 

It seemed churlish to accuse Ray of ulterior motives, even when they were this evident, though Fraser supposed this was in a good cause. After all, a choir could be a very uplifting experience, for both its members and its audience. But the least Ray could do under the circumstances was offer to come down here, stand by Fraser, and sing. Ray’s voice wasn’t that bad for someone with no formal training, and the cop might be better able than the Mountie to elbow them both some breathing space. 

Fraser indulged himself with a silent sigh. He’d been looking forward to visiting with the priest, who seemed to be a shrewd and affable man. And Fraser had wanted to visit his friend Walter Sparks as well, who could often be found here at St Michael’s or at the parish rectory, compulsively cleaning the stained glass and the carved stone. Instead, it seemed that Fraser had joined a choir.

Father Behan’s delight in his burgeoning choir dampened a little when he saw Benton Fraser’s hunted expression. The fellow appeared even paler than usual, no doubt fighting for air – and dignity – amidst the bevy of eager young women. Behan turned to Ray Vecchio. ‘He did volunteer for this, didn’t he?’ 

‘Oh, absolutely, Father,’ the cop assured him. ‘You know how it is with Mounties – any excuse to burst into song.’ 

The priest muttered, ‘l do believe you’ve been watching too many Nelson Eddy movies, Raymond. Although a choir full of Jeanette McDonalds is rather better than no choir at all.’ 

‘Nelson who?’ Vecchio asked. 

‘Never mind. No doubt he was before your time.’ 

The choir master called for attention by tapping her baton against the podium. ‘All right, ladies – and Constable Fraser. Turn to hymn 598.’ The organist resolutely launched into the introduction. Rustling clothes accompanied the music as the choir members stood, paper riffled as they quickly searched through their hymn books. 

The organ music swelled to fill the church. Below the choir loft, in the church’s assembly, a man named Joey Paducci was digging through the spare change in his pockets. 

All Joey wanted was one lousy dollar to give to the church so that he could light a candle in remembrance of his little girl. It was his baby’s second birthday that very day, and he couldn’t be with her –Joey’s wife had left him and left Chicago months ago, and she’d taken their child with her, and he had no idea where she’d gone. Once upon a time he’d had everything that a happy man could require, but it seemed Joey Paducci had nothing now – no family, no work, no friends, no money. Not even enough money to light a candle. 

Despairing, he slid the pitiful coins back into his pocket and dropped the taper back into the box. Then he walked over to one of the back pews, and knelt in order to offer up a prayer instead. Prayers were, as always, free of charge – if not free of obligation. 

Joey Paducci remained unaware of the commotion that was currently descending on the choir loft. Ray Vecchio, however, was all too painfully aware of impending disaster as soon as he saw a certain familiar face. ‘Oh God,’ he blurted out. And then Ray cringed, having promised himself a hundred times before he came here that he wouldn’t blaspheme. ‘Sorry, Father.’ 

‘Excuse me,’ the commotion was saying as she pushed her way down through the choir, stepping from the seat of one pew to the next. The other girls were resentful, and reluctant to let her through. 

Father Behan asked, ‘That is your sister, isn’t it?’ 

‘Ah,’ Ray replied gamely, ‘yes, it is, Father.’ 

‘Oh God,’ the priest exclaimed in heartfelt tones. 

‘Excuse me.’ Francesca Vecchio at last stood on the pew behind Fraser. Her brother watched with great trepidation as she primped a little. And then she brought herself to Fraser’s attention by bumping him with her hip – with so great a force that Fraser stumbled forwards and the hymn book went flying out of his hands and into space, to land on the marble floor of the assembly thirty feet below. It was a wonder Fraser didn’t follow it. 

Benton Fraser quickly turned to confront the culprit, and his heart quailed when he saw who it was. Of all the women in Chicago, Ray’s younger sister was by far the boldest… 

‘Oh, Benton!’ Francesca cried. ‘What a surprise,’ she added as she climbed down from the seat to stand beside him. ‘You sing, too?’ 

‘Er, so I’m told.’ 

‘How nice.’ 

Fraser looked behind him, searching for Ray. What were his friend’s ulterior motives in this regard? Frowning, Fraser briefly wondered whether Ray was about to begin assisting his sister in her pursuit of Fraser’s attentions – though he quickly dismissed such a notion. Ray wasn’t a cruel man, after all. But could it be that Ray Vecchio, whom Fraser was used to considering as the cleverest person in Chicago, had been out-maneuvered by Francesca? It appeared the latter might be the case, for when Fraser finally met Ray’s gaze across the expanse of attractive young women, the cop grimaced and shrugged haplessly. 

Francesca was being jostled by the women beside her, but she refused to give ground. This was going to be the battle that won the war, she was quite determined that today was going to mark the successful end to a noble campaign. ‘Move it,’ she announced to her other neighbor while Fraser was momentarily distracted, ‘or lose your foot.’ And she snatched the woman’s hymn book so she could share it with Fraser. 

Clearing his throat, Fraser turned to face the front again. It was silly to be afraid of a woman half his size, really quite silly to be afraid of his best friend’s sister. He could handle this situation. He had the training and the resources and the necessary strength of character – even if back-up was unavailable, Fraser would acquit himself with courage, wit and dignity. He was his father’s son, after all. 

As the singing began, a different drama was unfolding below. Two men knelt in the front pew, deep in their own concerns – they were perhaps oblivious to the simple white altar before them, and the pretty green, blue and crimson of the radiating chapels behind it. The older of the men seemed to be in a particularly serious mood, though this might have been nothing more than the solemnity that came with having seen a great deal of life. He said, ‘I’m only asking for the same terms your father gave me.’ 

‘My father was a very generous man,’ Frank Zuko observed in rather self-satisfied tones. He made the sign of the cross – forehead to breast, left shoulder to right – before adding, ‘I’m sure he’s in heaven.’ 

Both men sat back on the wooden pew, close together under the church’s lofty reaches. 

Zuko was in his early thirties, casually wearing an expensive suit and an assured attitude. A bandage was wrapped firmly around his right palm and wrist, and continued on under his shirt-cuff. ‘Look at this,’ he said, lifting his hand to examine the swelling. ‘I’m playing pick-up. I got the ball, and some real estate broker charges me, practically breaks my arm.’ 

Apparently unwilling to be deflected from the original topic, the older man said, ‘We go back a long way. I’ve been doing business with your family for forty years. I’ve made good every time. This isn’t right.’ His gravelly voice contrasted with Zuko’s clarity, just as his rough and large features contrasted with the younger man’s smooth neatness. 

A very direct look from Zuko’s dark eyes, and a deceptively quiet tone to the voice now. ‘Are you accusing me of being unjust, Tommy?’ 

‘No, no,’ the man quickly replied, unable to meet that gaze for long. ‘l wouldn’t do that, Mr. Zuko.’ 

‘Good.’ Zuko left a long pause through which stronger men had sweated. ‘Because I would hate to think that I had failed to earn your respect.’ And it was always obvious what Frank Zuko meant, even when he didn’t actually say it. 

‘I’ll take the deal. The deal’s fine.’ 

The younger man was all easy friendship now. ‘Yeah, if that’s what you want.’ And he smiled as if they had, after all, been discussing nothing more deadly than basketball. 

The two of them stood, genuflected to acknowledge the divine presence in the Blessed Sacrament, and began to walk back down the central aisle. 

Zuko asked, ‘Do you want to shoot some baskets on Saturday?’ 

Joey Paducci, still kneeling in the back pew, watched the pair approach. And then, recognizing at least one of the men, Joey ducked his head rather than be seen. 

‘Me?’ the older man asked, somewhat surprised by the suggestion. He certainly didn’t appear to be a sportsman, and perhaps hadn’t been one even in his prime. 

‘Yeah, Tommy – you.’ 

‘Sure, Mr. Zuko. Sure.’ 

Frank Zuko took a moment on his way out of the church to slip some money into the poor-box – a hundred dollar bill, neatly folded in four. He paused there, as if praying for those he sought to help, or contemplating his own generosity. 

Joey Paducci turned to watch him leave. 

The hymn filled the church, the organist enjoying the chance to accompany several more voices than he was used to. Both sets of pews were full now, almost thirty women raising their voices in song. Almost thirty women, and one man. Ray Vecchio was still standing up the back of the loft, watching the choir with a smug and proprietary air. Father Behan, however, was waiting for disaster to strike. 

The choir master noticed first, and cast a glare in the direction of the commotion. It seemed that one of the women was in harmony with the rest in intent, but not in execution. 

‘I was sitting there having my nails done the other day,’ Francesca Vecchio was loudly declaring to Benton Fraser, ‘when it just hits me like a ton of bricks. This guy is _never_ going to come to you, Francesca.’ She laughed sans humor. ‘ _Nothing_ that good ever comes to you.’ 

Fraser faltered, and quit singing for a moment, listening in dismay to this self-deprecating tirade. It sounded very much like trouble. 

‘The way I see it is,’ Francesca announced – ‘you want the best, you got to take it.’ 

Trouble, yes. Recalling what he should be doing, Fraser began singing again, though he was all too aware that his voice was over-loud, and his timing sped away beyond the cues of the choir master. Francesca was continuing, apparently oblivious to Fraser’s discomfort. Though her speech seemed addressed to herself alone, there was no doubt a message in there aimed very directly at Fraser. 

‘So I say to myself, ask him out.’ 

The other young women were growing restless, resentful of Francesca’s unprovoked attack on their mutual quarry. Fraser had already noted that they’d all dressed colorfully, perhaps with the intention of attracting his or Ray’s attention, and they had made themselves up as if dining out rather than attending choir practice. Francesca, though, who Fraser had long ago learned had no regard for subtlety – Francesca out-did them all. She was wearing a form-fitting dress of red lace, her dark hair shone beautifully, and her long earrings dangled love-hearts against her collarbones. The fact that Fraser did indeed find her attractive only made the whole ghastly situation worse. 

‘To which I replied,’ Francesca recounted, ‘what if it goes badly? I mean, what if we go out to dinner and I have, like, _food_ stuck between my teeth or something, and he turns off to me? There are a lot of risks involved in eating out with someone for the first time.’ 

The choir master looked on in distracted disapproval – her hands drooped lower and lower, though unlike Fraser they did manage to maintain the right timing. Fraser found himself hoping, though apparently in vain, that the choir master would seek to regain control of the situation. Wasn’t the choir’s discipline one of her responsibilities? 

Francesca clicked her fingers as if she’d been inspired. ‘So _then_ I say, ask him out for drinks. But then I remember – he’s a _Mountie_ , stupid, he doesn’t drink.’

While all this was going on in the choir loft, Joey Paducci was looking around himself. Now that Zuko and his companion had left, Joey was alone down there in the church’s assembly. Perhaps this was the only chance he’d ever have for a little piece of justice. Joey headed for the poor-box, reached into his pocket and drew out the one tool he always kept with him – and he quickly worked to pry open the lid. 

‘I mean, sure it’s _dark_ in a movie theatre and everything, but there could be people around, and what if he hates the movie, or what if he likes the lead actress too much and I just don’t compare, you know what I’m saying…’ 

Ah, Fraser thought, cinemas were obviously to be avoided, even though it seemed that Francesca considered this to be yet another course of action that wouldn’t assist her in her pursuit: He wondered for the hundredth time exactly where Francesca’s monologue was going to take her, and he feared for the thousandth time that it would be some place disconcerting. 

Like her older brother, Francesca tended to talk with her hands and express her enthusiasm with her entire body. Fraser found himself struggling to follow the tune as the hymn book shifted with her every move. 

‘So, the way I see it,’ Francesca continued loudly, ‘why do we have to play these games? I mean, we’re both adults. We both know what we want. So…’ Francesca cleared her throat. 

The hymn drew to an end with a suitable flourish. Silence fell through the church. 

And into that silence Francesca asked, ‘You want to have sex?’ 

Worse than disconcerting. Fraser stared down at her, feeling absolutely flabbergasted. Someone gave a horrified gasp. Hymn books fell in despair. The organist hit a mis-chord. Never underestimate Francesca Vecchio, Fraser reminded himself. 

And a cry sounded from the assembly below, a cry of dismay – it echoed the chagrin of almost thirty women who’d missed asking Fraser that very question themselves. But the context of the cry was soon made clearer. ‘Help, help!’ an older woman cried. ‘Thief, thief!’ 

Constable Benton Fraser looked alertly around. Duty called, and duty was always his dearest priority. 

Joey Paducci was running helter-skelter for the front doors. 

Fraser glanced back at Francesca, and proceeded to politely extricate himself from the situation. ‘Oh, darn,’ he said with as much feigned regret as he could muster. ‘Excuse me.’ And he leapt up onto the balustrade of the choir loft, and jumped to the marble floor of the assembly thirty feet below, landing in a neat roll. 

As the women above dashed to the railing to see whether Fraser was all right, he was already up and heading for the front doors. 

‘He had an appointment,’ Francesca explained to all and sundry. It was absolutely mortifying the lengths some people would go to in order to avoid her. 

Fraser acknowledged the lady who’d witnessed the crime, pushed through the heavy wooden doors, and came to a halt on the front steps of St Michael’s. He looked around – a car drove past, a few people were wandering along the far side of the street. No sign of any fleeing villains. No sign of anything much except a cold grey and recently rainy Chicago day.

♦


	2. Two

♦

The squad room of the twenty-seventh precinct was bustling along efficiently. It felt like this was a good day. People were there, everyone was busy, but there was none of the dark fraught atmosphere of horrible crimes remaining unsolved. Lieutenant Welsh was safely ensconced in his office, with apparently nothing on his mind that he needed to raise his voice about. Elaine Besbriss, the Civilian Aid worker, was sitting at her desk with feet up and paperwork in hand, no doubt ready to meet any request for information a Detective might throw at her. Huey and Louie were nowhere to be seen. In fact, Ray Vecchio had been having a very good day – until he returned from lunch to find Constable Benton Fraser sitting at Ray’s desk, wearing his dress reds and examining the poor-box from St Michael’s.

‘Ah, Ray,’ the fellow said, ‘I’m glad you’ve returned. Did you have a pleasant date?’

Ray gaped a little. ‘How did you know about that?’

‘I have my sources,’ Fraser replied, with a conspiratorial air so obvious that it was unintentionally comic.

Well, it didn’t take much to figure out who the culprit was – Ray shot a glare across the room at Elaine, though she maintained her innocent and oblivious expression. ‘Yeah, it was nice,’ Ray told his friend. He put down the paper cup he was carrying before the hot coffee it contained did permanent damage to his fingertips.

It had indeed been a nice lunch date. Ray had taken Heather, a honeyed blonde from the Forensics unit, out to Roberto’s, a fine old Italian restaurant. In honor of the occasion, Ray had worn his new blue suit, an ivory shirt, and a silk tie featuring blues, subtle golds and more ivory.

Maybe he’d never get anywhere with the woman, and maybe Ray was so lonely he was in danger of becoming pathetic, but it had been nice just to be with someone, and flirt around a little in his most non-threatening manner. No, now he thought about it, Ray knew he didn’t stand much of a chance with Heather – for when he had spun her the honest-but-hopeful line about her coming home to his Ma’s cooking for a real Italian meal, his date had simply laughed.

After Ray had parked the Riviera just down the street from the police station, he and Heather had stopped at an espresso bar to get something to take back to the office with them. Ray had been anticipating sitting peacefully at his desk for a few moments, slowly easing into the afternoon by pretending to read a file, leaning back, contemplating recent warm memories, and sipping at the strong coffee – but it was obvious that Fraser wouldn’t be giving him the chance.

‘I’m glad you had an enjoyable time, Ray,’ Fraser was saying, breaking away from his examination of the evidence for a moment to look up at his friend with an earnest expression. Ah, yes, Ray thought – if you could bottle that sincerity you’d make a fortune. Problem was, you’d have to sell it complete with its own red uniform, brass buttons and Stetson.

‘Never mind about my date.’ Despite fearing he knew what the answer would be, Ray asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m pursuing our investigation of this crime, Ray.’

‘Yeah.’ Of course, thought Ray flatly. How could he have been so stupid not to realize that. ‘Sure,’ he continued out loud, ‘we’ll fill out the paperwork, dot the ‘T’s, cross the ‘I’s, and file it all neatly away.’

Fraser produced a magnifying glass from somewhere, and continued his examination of the poor-box, which really appeared far too modest to warrant all this attention.

Ray sighed, and began searching through the nearest filing cabinet for the correct form. Nothing was where it should be. The day was sliding very rapidly downhill. ‘Have you been tidying these filing cabinets again, Benny?’

‘Sorry, Ray,’ the fellow muttered, his mind on larger concerns.

‘Great. Well, you know what they say about how one man’s organization is another man’s chaos.’ Ray flipped through a pile of manila folders, but they only contained completed reports. ‘A form, a form, my kingdom for a form.’

‘You know, Ray, crime is always disturbing. But when the victims include a church, and the people in need whom the church is endeavoring to help, the matter will inevitably seem even more distressing to the community.’

Ray tried another filing cabinet, taking his espresso with him in the wistful hope that he might get the chance to drink it while the coffee was still at an acceptable temperature.

‘This can be viewed as a serious matter,’ the Mountie announced, ‘for a number of reasons. I hope we will be able to make quick progress.’

Oh, this is ridiculous, thought Ray. ‘Will you forget about it, Benny? Father Behan said that, judging by the donations made previously, there was probably less than forty bucks in there. If you want, I’ll give him the money right out of my own pocket.’

Yes, this was what was wrong with the Mountie – he never knew when to quit, and he could never tell what was important and what wasn’t. What did it matter if forty dollars was missing from the poor-box? No one had gotten hurt. And, now he thought of it, if Ray donated the money himself, it would ease his guilt over never really managing to give a full tithe to the church.

Heedless of his friend’s opinion, Fraser said, ‘Look at the gouge marks around the hinges, Ray.’

‘No,’ the cop replied as firmly as he knew how, trying yet another cabinet. Where were those damned forms?

‘The thief loosened the fittings before he pried the lid.’

‘OK, forty bucks and a new poor-box.’ In fact, Ray would give Father Behan a new poor-box and sixty dollars, and everything would be fine, everyone would be happy. Everyone would be happy except for the Mountie.

‘Judging from the striations in the wood, I’d say he must have used some kind of specialized tool.’

‘I’d ask you what striations are, but then you’d just assume I was interested, so I won’t.’

‘Striations are marks or scores on a surface, Ray.’

‘See? There you go, thinking I’m interested.’ God, the Mountie could be the most frustrating person in the whole world. ‘Benny, it’s a three dollar lock and a ten dollar box – what do you want to do, call in Scotland Yard? Alert Interpol? Mobilize the Marines?’

‘Given the angle of insertion I’d say he’s probably right-handed.’

Ray almost groaned. ‘Now, _that_ is the break we needed,’ he declared in one of his best sarcastic tones. ‘Let’s go nail the right-handed bastard.’

Fraser continued his relentless examination of the evidence. ‘Now, you’ll notice this rough indentation in the wood made when the lid was pried open –’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘It indicates the implement had a curved head and a sharp point. You know,’ Fraser announced thoughtfully, ‘ it rather brings to mind a hook used for sockeye salmon.’

Ray’s head lifted. ‘Hey, Elaine,’ he called across the room. Why should he be the only one to suffer, after all?

The woman had been peacefully reading from a sheet of paper. When she looked up, it was apparent that she was already completely uninterested in whatever Ray was about to ask her.

‘Get me a list of all the salmon fisheries in the greater metropolitan area, will you?’

‘What?!’ Elaine retorted in disbelief.

Fraser quickly said, ‘Never mind, Elaine. I believe Ray was just mocking me.’

Ray chuckled, having enjoyed that little exchange. ‘Ah, yes, I was mocking you.’ However, Ray was never quite sure whether moments like these amused him _despite_ the fact that Fraser took him seriously, or _because_ Fraser did so. Rather than ponder that puzzle, Ray leaned down to search through his desk’s drawers. Maybe one day in the recent past he’d found himself with more forms than he’d needed, and had slipped the spare ones away for future use. Stranger things had happened.

‘We’re not looking for a fishing hook per se, Ray. I was simply using the image to describe the shape of the implement’s head. Now, the distance from the mark to the rear indicates the implement was at least six inches long, with sufficient heft to loosen the hinges.’ Fraser, head still bent over the poor-box even while lecturing Ray, now exclaimed, ‘Ah hah.’

Ray knew that tone. The Mountie had made a discovery, and he wanted to use it to snag the cop’s curiosity. Well, this was one time Ray Vecchio would not get dragged into Fraser’s latest crusade. ‘No. OK? No ah hahs, no uh huhs, no interestings, no look at this, Ray – because I’m not going to look.’

Always one for investigating a crime through all six senses, Fraser lifted his little finger to his mouth and tasted something that was no doubt absolutely disgusting. Another pronouncement was made: ‘The implement left a waxy residue.’

‘Well, I guess that rules out salmon hooks.’

‘They were already ruled out, Ray.’

Oh, why did the man have to take everything so damned seriously? Ray tried yet another filing cabinet. Maybe Fraser’s problem was that here in Chicago he was a Deputy Liaison Officer, and his duties seemed to consist of paper-filing, door-opening and boot-ironing. Surely back in the snowy wastes of the Yukon, where Fraser could be a real policeman, and where there were murders and muggings and rapes and kidnappings to deal with – surely then the Mountie wouldn’t waste all this time and effort on the temporary misplacement of forty dollars. Ray sighed. He was forgetting, of course, that the Yukon was in Canada. The worst crimes committed there were probably mocking a caribou or recklessly endangering an American’s sanity by driving too slow.

Making a last ditch attempt to get his point across, Ray said, ‘Fraser, this is a petty theft, OK? We’ll fill out a form, if I can find the damned thing, and if somebody returns the money, we’ll bring it back to the church.’

Well, at least Fraser lifted his head to reply directly to the cop. ‘I’m not interested in the money, Ray,’ he said in the most clear and reasonable of tones, as if explaining something of great significance to a bear of little brain. ‘I’m after the thief.’

Ray gaped in excessive disbelief. Did the man have no sense of proportion? ‘Look, Benny, I am a Detective with the Violent Crimes unit – or the Serious Crimes unit, or whatever the hell the Commander is calling us today – and I worked very hard to get here, and I work very hard to stay here, and I just don’t see how chasing after a two-bit thief is going to help my career.’

‘A crime is a crime, Ray.’

‘No, Benny, a crime is _not_ a crime. Why don’t we fill in the form, and give Father Behan the money out of my own wallet – I’m going no higher than eighty dollars, mind you – and then we can go chase after a murderer or two. That way we might actually do the world some good one day real soon.’

Ray was so caught up in this tirade he didn’t even notice that his boss had walked up to Ray’s desk until Lieutenant Welsh said, ‘Vecchio.’ The man had a manila folder in hand, which meant a new case or a complaint of some kind. ‘St Michael’s,’ Welsh continued. ‘Somebody robbed the poor-box. Look into it.’

‘I’m already on it, sir,’ Ray replied with his best breezy sincerity, ‘and I even found some waxy residue.’

Fraser gave Ray the benefit of his best deadpan expression, no doubt questioning this sudden change of heart and this claiming of credit that quite rightly belonged to the Mountie. Ray grimaced down at him. What did Fraser expect? If Welsh was taking this stupid thing seriously, then of course the case was going to rate way higher on Ray’s list of priorities.

Welsh was explaining his interest in the matter. ‘It seems a prominent member of the congregation is concerned that we’re not going to give attention to the theft, since there was only a small amount of money involved.’

Fraser slipped oh-so-smoothly into the conversation. ‘Detective Vecchio was just pointing out the basic injustice of that, sir.’

Smiling smugly, Ray nodded for his boss’s benefit. It seemed that Benny was getting the hang of this friendship thing at last, and actually backing Ray up when the occasion demanded it.

Unfortunately Welsh seemed less than convinced by this combined effort to make Ray look good – the Lieutenant instead refocused on the Mountie. ‘I have to ask you this. Don’t you have a job of your own?’

Fraser was giving Welsh that big blue-eyed Mountie look. If Ray could bottle the combined innocence and sang-froid that the man managed to project, Ray would be set for life. The expression never seemed genuine when Ray tried to do it. ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Fraser was saying. ‘As I believe you are already aware, I am currently posted to the Canadian Consulate. However, I had the early shift this morning, so I was free to come here when that shift ended.’

Welsh frowned. ‘You have nothing better to do with your life than hang around here and help us solve crimes?’

After due consideration, Fraser replied, ‘No, sir.’

And at that moment even Ray felt this seemed quite reasonable. Though he had to admit that if the shoe was on the other foot he couldn’t imagine himself hanging around the Mountie’s outpost helping him deal with illegally parked snowmobiles.

‘All right, start with this concerned citizen,’ Welsh said, handing the folder over to Ray.

As soon as Ray opened it up, a name leapt out at him. ‘Frank Zuko?’ he exclaimed, immediately chasing after Welsh as the Lieutenant headed back to his office. ‘We’re running errands for Frank Zuko now?’

Apparently Fraser was interested by Ray’s reaction, for the cop was aware of the Mountie tagging along at his shoulder. Imagine Fraser actually leaving that damned poor-box and its striations behind.

In the weighty tones suitable for this serious topic, Welsh asked, ‘Do you have evidence to put Mr. Zuko behind bars, Detective?’

‘No, sir,’ Ray replied.

‘Because if you do,’ Welsh continued with a more personal eagerness, ‘there’s a pack of Feds who would love to have that information passed on.’

And of course the grey suits in the Federal Building weren’t the only ones with a yen for justice being served on Frank Zuko. ‘I realize that, sir.’

Welsh paused in his office doorway. ‘Do you want the newspapers getting the impression that we don’t care enough about certain communities to pay attention to their concerns?’

Ray kind of shrugged all over. He agreed with every single one of the Lieutenant’s points, but that didn’t mean he had to like any of them. ‘No, sir.’

‘Well, go show the flag.’ And Welsh’s attention was again caught by the Mountie standing at the Detective’s side. ‘Do you go see any movies, go out on dates, anything like that?’

Fraser made the effort to think of something to satisfy the curiosity of Ray’s boss – an effort that Ray was pleased by. ‘I recently joined a choir, sir.’

‘Oh. Good, good. That’s good.’ And Welsh disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him.

Ray walked off with his unofficial partner still at his shoulder. Time to go wave some politically expedient flags at Chicago’s biggest scumbag. Great.

Fraser asked, ‘This Mr. Zuko – he’s an acquaintance of yours?’

In the unhappiest of tones, Ray replied, ‘Yeah, you could say we’re acquainted.’

The pair of them collected their coats from the stand near Ray’s desk, and headed out. As he opened the squad room’s door to let Fraser pass through into the stairwell, Ray glanced at his friend’s expression – and discovered that Fraser was intrigued. Wonderful. Now the Mountie would be investigating the bitter history Ray shared with Frank Zuko with all the zeal that Fraser applied to poor-boxes. Just wonderful.

♦

Although Fraser’s curiosity had been thoroughly piqued, he didn’t let his questions break into his friend’s silence. Ray hadn’t said a word since they’d left the police station, and the drive over here had only been remarkable due to the Detective’s continuing thoughtful contemplation. They were now in one of the few conspicuously richer areas of Ray’s neighborhood, on a street where the houses were set amidst generous gardens. The few people Fraser saw had decent clothes on their backs and a purpose in their step.

Ray parked his Buick Riviera, then wandered off down the sidewalk to stand a few feet away considering a moderately imposing house. Fraser walked over to join the man, wondering what Ray was thinking about, wondering what emotions or memories colored his view of the scene before them.

Even to a stranger such as Fraser, the house seemed somewhat grim. It was commanding, though the house itself didn’t appear to be overly large – perhaps it drew attention because it was set on a rise. A wide path led up to a verandah, where a visitor had to brave a stone archway to reach the front door. There was a balcony overhead, and wings to either side. The architectural style was not familiar to Fraser, and he would need to look it up in the local library, though he suspected a German influence rather than an Italian one. Behind the house, a row of tall trees reached bare limbs to form a backdrop against a cold sky. Perhaps the place would feel more attractive in Spring.

At last Fraser cleared his throat and said, ‘The Zuko residence, I presume?’

‘Yeah.’ Ray Vecchio sighed, and after another moment’s silence he said, ‘You know, I hate Frank Zuko – always have and always will. But I spent some of the best hours of my life in his house.’

Apparently Ray wasn’t going to explain anything further, and Fraser decided not to press the man, though Fraser was of course only further intrigued by Ray’s unexpected reflection.

Ray muttered, ‘Just as well Frankie doesn’t know about that.’ And the Detective set off down the sidewalk.

Fraser caught up with him just in time for them to turn and walk up Zuko’s path together, avoiding the patches of snow and the ice that lurked in the shadows. The house loomed darkly over the pair. When they reached the verandah, Fraser took off his Stetson and rang the bell.

The man who answered the door was of about Fraser’s own age, with a healthy frame and perhaps ten centimeters shorter. He wore dark clothes, with something of Ray’s casual though well-groomed grace. As he recognized at least one of his callers, his face brightened.

Ray spoke first. ‘Detective Vecchio,’ he succinctly announced, ‘twenty-seventh precinct.’

Zuko met this business-like attitude with a broad welcoming grin. ‘Ray, good to see you.’ And he offered his bandaged right hand.

At first Fraser thought the smile on Ray’s face was polite – but when Ray pointedly did not take Zuko’s hand, the expression became open to other interpretations. Insolence rather than politeness, perhaps. A deliberate lack of cooperation, or a challenge.

Fraser reached to shake Zuko’s hand instead, keeping his grip light due to the man’s apparent injury. ‘Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP.’

Frank Zuko accepted this, though he barely acknowledged Fraser. The man’s expression blanked as he continued to stare at Ray – then, once he had made his point, Zuko’s affability returned. It appeared he would not be fazed by any challenge or rudeness of Ray’s, though Zuko would make a mental note of the attitude. ‘Come on in,’ Zuko asked.

They followed him inside, and through a lounge room into a den that had perhaps once been a dining room. The place was full of furniture, all dark wood and paneling and brass fittings, with plants and paintings and statues adding to what Fraser felt was clutter. It reminded Fraser of the Vecchio home, though he was very sure by now that Ray would not appreciate the comparison. Computers and other technology in the den contrasted with the old-fashioned fittings. Indeed, the computers were placed on a beautiful mahogany table that was apparently used as a desk. The table was positioned so that the person sitting at it was framed by the imposing fireplace and mantelpiece behind him or her – though the current occupant was a little girl, presumably harmless, dressed brightly in red.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ Zuko asked his visitors. ‘No, you’re on duty, right?’

‘You know I never did drink,’ Ray replied, voice hard. ‘And neither does Fraser.’

‘Yeah, I remember now. We always got you to drive us home after a basketball match, didn’t we, Ray? Because you were the only one who was always sober. Would you like coffee instead?’

Fraser thought Ray might accept this offer, as they had left the police station before the cop had a chance to drink the coffee he’d brought in after lunch. However, Ray just said flatly, ‘We’re here about the robbery at St Michael’s.’

‘Sure. I understand how busy you must be.’ Zuko sighed, as if regretful of this lost opportunity to relive old times. As he wandered around behind the desk to stand by the girl, he said, ‘You know, this is a great old neighborhood. One of the last with any kind of tradition, any sense of living history. And I would hate to see this sort of criminal element creep in. You know, when my father was –’ Zuko paused, and smiled with some irony. ‘Well, we all know what my father was. But one thing you could say for the man, he made sure that the neighborhood was safe.’

The girl was about five years old, as near as Fraser could judge – though, as he’d had little on-going experience with children, he could be mistaken. She had been too busy with crayons and paper to pay the three men much attention, but she now announced, ‘I made you a picture, Daddy.’ As she looked up, it was obvious that she’d inherited her father’s dark hair, brown eyes and good looks.

‘Let me see, honey,’ Zuko said, bending down over her. ‘Oh, that’s beautiful.’ The warmth in his voice was genuine now, which indicated that his overtures to Ray had not originated in real friendship. Zuko pressed a kiss to the girl’s hair and suggested, ‘Why don’t you run in and show Mommy, OK?’

Apparently this seemed like a good idea, for the girl sped out through the side door, picture in hand. Zuko indicated that Fraser should close the door behind her, and he did so.

As Zuko walked out from behind his desk again, Ray stepped forward to confront him. ‘Out of respect for your little girl,’ Ray told the man, ‘I don’t say anything. But let’s not start reminiscing about the good old days of extortion and intimidation, OK, Frankie? Because nothing’s changed except the designer sneakers.’

‘PR isn’t your strong suit, is it, Detective?’ Without backing down, Zuko sat in an easy chair off to one side, his informal manner contrasting with Ray’s provocations.

Ignoring Zuko’s comment, the cop reached for the notebook in his breast pocket, and flipped through it to find a blank page. Fraser simply stood there and watched, willing to let Ray take the lead in this situation. ‘I just got a couple of questions,’ Ray was saying, all brusque and business-like again. ‘How much money did you put in the poor-box?’ And he slipped a pen out of the same pocket.

‘I don’t know. A hundred, I guess.’

‘The man you saw in the assembly – you got a description?’

‘No. I barely noticed him.’

‘Anyone with you who might have been a little more observant?’

Zuko frowned at the way this question was framed. ‘Yes, but when I asked him, he said he didn’t know the man.’

‘You know, it just blows my mind,’ Ray commented with some sarcasm to Fraser. ‘How can one guy single-handedly pull off a heist of this magnitude?’

‘I’m ignoring your tone because we have a history,’ Zuko said, letting his annoyance show. ‘But don’t push it, Ray. You know better than that.’

The cop was staring down at Zuko, and sliding his notebook away again, apparently done with his interview of this witness. Fraser wondered whether Zuko knew Ray as well as Fraser himself did, for if so Zuko should easily be able to read the warning signs.

‘This may seem penny ante to you, Vecchio, but somebody did commit a crime here.’

Ray met Zuko’s annoyance with his own loud anger. ‘You figure a guy who stole – what, a hundred and forty bucks? – is a serious threat to the community and should be prosecuted?’

‘What I figure is that this person didn’t just rob a church – he stole from the people in this community who needed the money the most. You ask me, that’s about as low as a person can get.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Ray.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Zuko stood up in order to face Ray, his voice also rising. ‘Your mother doesn’t live in this community? Your sisters don’t walk home past that church every night? You think some guy who robs a church is going to think twice about mugging the women in your family – or mine?’

Ray had listened to this tirade with a serious expression, and now replied with a deceptively quiet tone. ‘Let’s not compare your family and mine, OK, Frankie.’ The only obvious emphasis was provided by the pen Ray lifted between himself and Zuko, though the cop was also using his height to tower over the smaller man. ‘Because we don’t walk down the same block.’

Fraser had heard Ray use this tone before. It was time to intervene, given that neither man seemed prepared to back down. He cleared his throat, and stepped closer to attract their attention. ‘I am sure that Detective Vecchio shares your concerns, Mr. Zuko,’ Fraser said. He was gratified to see that Ray trusted Fraser enough to turn away, and retreat a few feet. ‘After all, as you pointed out, this is his neighborhood, too.’

Zuko smiled appreciatively, and cast a glance over Fraser’s uniform. ‘You’re Canadian, right?’

‘Yes,’ Fraser replied.

‘Then, you understand. You come from one of those nice clean cities where they have no graffiti, no garbage on the streets, and –’ Zuko shifted a little so that he could aim this next point over Fraser’s shoulder at Ray – ‘people treat each other with respect.’ He looked back at Fraser. ‘Right?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Fraser replied, glancing back at Ray himself, for the cop would surely have a better idea of what Zuko really intended to convey. Ray was watching Zuko carefully though unguardedly, and Fraser concluded that this situation was far more serious than it appeared to be on the surface. Turning back to Zuko, Fraser continued, ‘Although it’s been my experience that many people live their lives thinking that they’re respected, only to discover that they’ve been merely feared – and fears can be overcome.’

Zuko was steadily taking this in, meeting Fraser’s direct gaze and not providing any obvious reaction, though the man’s affability had gone.

Fraser added, ‘We will find the thief.’

‘Thank you, Constable. I’d be very grateful if you did.’ Though it felt as if Zuko’s quiet sincerity was somewhat overdone.

What did the man seek to gain by pushing the police to investigate this crime? Fraser would need to ponder the possibilities. And why did Zuko pretend to be something he was not, when Ray Vecchio knew better? For now, though, it was clearly time to leave. ‘Ray, shall we?’ Fraser invited. He and the cop both turned away, and walked through into the lounge room.

Zuko was trailing along behind them, seeing them to the front door. He called, ‘Do you still play basketball, Ray?’

Fraser turned back, wondering at yet another friendly overture when the relationship between these two men seemed irretrievable and correctly so. Though Fraser knew no details of their history, he had seen nothing today to convince him that Ray’s antipathy for Zuko was unmerited, given the man’s background and nature.

Still at Fraser’s side, Ray was slower to face Zuko again.

‘You ought to come down to the gym one Saturday,’ Zuko suggested. ‘Work off some of that pasta.’

‘I don’t think so, Frankie,’ Ray said. His voice was quiet, which might have been due to the aftermath of the cop’s anger, or a weariness with pretending that anything could be all right between him and the son of the mobster.

As Ray turned away and headed for the door, Fraser noted that Zuko lost his affable smile again. Fraser nodded another polite farewell and followed his friend, contemplating the situation. Something unsavory was going on here, for there were meanings and intentions hiding below Zuko’s surface, and even beneath the next layer down – Zuko was too clever to have betrayed his reactions to Fraser unless he meant to. Something was going on, and Fraser could only hope that Ray Vecchio knew Frank Zuko well enough to help Fraser figure it out.

♦

Frank Zuko stood at the window and, frowning through the gauze curtains, watched the oddly-matched pair of policemen walk down his front path. Everything was going according to plan. Ray Vecchio was a good enough cop and a dumb enough man to play the role allotted him, and Zuko was pleased Ray’s Lieutenant had assigned him to this case. Yes, everything would soon slot into place…

‘Why did you let him talk to you like that?’

The demanding voice disrupted the brief moment of satisfaction. Keeping his back turned, Frank rolled his eyes heavenward and offered up a brief prayer. _If it be possible, let this cup pass from me._ ‘Who, Pop?’ he asked. ‘Ray or the Mountie?’

‘Both. But you’d better watch the Canadian. He’s a slippery one.’

‘I know that, Pop, I saw that for myself.’ When no further advice was forthcoming, Frank glanced back over his shoulder. The room was empty. Sighing with vain hope, Frank Zuko made the sign of the cross to ward off any further visitations.

Well, his father was right. Ray Vecchio was certainly capable of surprising Zuko, though that was a possible rather than a probable occurrence – but the Mountie was an unexpected wild card. Zuko didn’t require much from these men, though. Smiling to himself, Zuko decided that Constable Fraser might well prove to be a help rather than a hindrance in tying up a loose end or two.

♦

Walking down Zuko’s front steps at Fraser’s side, Ray felt as gloomy as the Winter sky that closed in around them. He hadn’t enjoyed that little confrontation with his old enemy, partly because he’d made no real impression on Zuko, and mostly because he wasn’t even close to figuring out why Zuko was doing all this posturing over such a petty crime. Frank Zuko’s own goons did worse at his behest every damned day of their misbegotten lives.

Conscious that Fraser was new to the whole situation, Ray belatedly began explaining some of it. ‘His father Carl ran the extortion rackets for over thirty years on this side of town. And he was definitely the man in charge – you couldn’t even write a parking ticket around here without getting it cleared through him.’

‘Carl Zuko was never brought to justice?’

‘Sure. He was gunned down in the men’s room at Wrigley Field during a Cubs game.’

‘Oh…’ said the Mountie, ‘how American.’ Ignoring Ray’s sardonic glance, Fraser continued, ‘At least Frank Zuko appears to be attempting to work through the law, Ray.’

‘And you’ve got to wonder why.’

Fraser considered this, while drawing on his leather gloves. ‘So you think he’s like his father?’

As the pair walked down the path, Ray rephrased and then answered Fraser’s question. ‘Is he more legit than his father? He can afford to be. But I went to school with Frank, I know who he is. Don’t let all that polish fool you.’

‘No, Ray.’

‘We used to play pick-up basketball together.’

‘That would indeed give you an insight into his true character.’

Ray had learned by now to recognize the Mountie’s dry, rather strange and inevitably mistimed sense of humor. Like many of the lessons in his life, Ray had learned this one the hard way. ‘I’m being deadly serious here, Fraser.’

‘Sorry, Ray.’

As Ray finally launched into the story proper, he was somewhat mollified to see Fraser frowning in concentration. They reached the sidewalk, Ray absently checked for foot-traffic, and they headed towards the Riv.

Ray was saying, ‘There was this one kid, Marco Matrani, couldn’t make a basket to save his life. No matter whose side he was on Marco always managed to lose the game, and Frank didn’t like losing. So one day, after a particularly galling defeat, a couple of Frank’s buddies held Marco down while Frank drilled a basketball into his face for about a half hour. Marco just lay there choking on his own blood.’

Fraser and Ray had reached the car. Ray stood there for a moment on the driver’s side, propped both hands on the roof, and dropped his head. There were some memories he wished he could just rip out by the roots, and be rid of them for good. Plenty of memories he’d love to be rid of. Like the sight of Marco’s messed-up face, and the odd way he walked when Ray and the other kids hauled him off to the nearby clinic. Marco’s sense of balance was completely shot for a while.

‘He needed fifty-two stitches. Poor bastard never came near a court again. And basketball… Well, you know, for some kids it was all we had.’

Standing across the car from Ray, Fraser also lay a hand flat on the Riviera’s roof. ‘I understand,’ the Mountie said.

Ray looked up, letting a deep breath puff out his cheeks and then releasing it. If Fraser mentioned the alleged sport of ice hockey at this juncture, Ray would never forgive him.

‘We had a schoolyard bully in Tuktoyaktuk once.’

 _Good_ , thought Ray.

Fraser was continuing, ‘Even all these years later, sometimes at night I remember him coming into the classroom swinging that otter over his head.’ The Mountie mimed said swing with one finger, and then indicated the impossibility of the situation with a tiny shrug. ‘There was just no reasoning with him.’

 _Weird_ , Ray amended. Opening the car door, Ray dredged up an ironic smile for his friend. ‘And I thought we had nothing in common.’

About to climb into the Riviera, Fraser straightened again and exclaimed, ‘Bindlestitch.’

Ray also stood, and turned to address the Mountie across the roof. ‘You know, you’ve got to stop swearing in Eskimo.’

‘No, no. A bindlestitch is a tool used by a shoemaker for lifting laces and stitching off the leather.’ Fraser passed on this information as earnestly as any of Ray’s favorite school teachers had. Ray took his turn at frowning in concentration. ‘Our poor-box thief used a bindlestitch, and the waxy residue is shoe polish.’

A more genuine smile painted itself across Ray’s face. ‘You’re making this stuff up, right?’

Apparently still attempting to take the cop seriously, Fraser considered the question – silly though it was – and replied, ‘No.’

Ray almost laughed. ‘Oh, get in the car,’ he said, and within moments he was smoothly pulling his beloved Riviera away from the curb.

♦

Frank Zuko was still watching from the window as Vecchio’s ridiculous green tank sped away down the road. He wondered if, when it came to cars, Ray would ever grow out of his teens. A rough voice behind Zuko announced, ‘We’ve been all through the neighborhood looking for the guy.’ It was Charlie this time, faithful old Charlie – a man, not a ghost.

‘And…?’ Zuko prompted.

‘No one saw anything. You know how it is.’

Zuko parted the gauze curtains as the Buick Riviera reached the end of the street and its brake lights flashed momentarily. ‘Follow _them_ ,’ he said to Charlie. ‘Do I have to think of everything myself? Ray Vecchio and his pet Canadian will find the guy. Can you do that for me now, do you think?’ And without a word Charlie obediently went to do Zuko’s bidding.

♦


	3. Three

♦

Francesca Vecchio had a dream, and she also had determination. She was determined that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life alone and lonely, and she was absolutely resolved to never again accept second best. As for the dream… well, it was a sweetly powerful dream and it directly involved the Mountie.

‘Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.’ She said it out loud, keeping the quiet magical words from falling outside her bedroom. Though everyone in Chicago must know by now how she felt about the man, there was no need to be caught invoking his name.

A quick glance around the room to check that everything was as neat and polished as Ma Vecchio liked it. Though Francesca had finished her household chores for the day, she heard her Ma begin clattering around in the kitchen below, and Francesca decided she’d go help her with the baking soon. There were few other demands on Francesca right now, after all – though she was working as a receptionist it was only a temporary job, and the part-time hours left her with plenty of free time.

Free time in which to sing in a choir, for instance. Francesca had overheard her brother Ray all last week, calling around every woman he’d ever known, asking them if they’d like to join the St Michael’s choir, and casually mentioning that Fraser would be there. To Francesca, this sounded like an invitation too good to be true, even though it seemed that Ray intended to exclude her from it. An opportunity too perfect to waste. So Francesca had dressed for success and made a suitably late entrance to the choir loft, and then she had proceeded to explain the whole situation as she saw it to the Mountie. She had simply asked him to take that vital next step with her. That was surely the way to go about this – until that moment, they had both been lost in a confusion of pretense and procrastination. The direct approach rarely failed a member of the Vecchio family.

Well, OK, so it hadn’t quite worked this time. But that was due to factors outside Francesca’s control. Fraser hadn’t even had the chance to respond to Francesca’s proposals. Francesca’s propositions, to be honest about the matter. He took his law enforcement responsibilities seriously – unlike some cops Francesca could mention – and he’d had to go chase a thief. Terrible timing, of course, but Francesca loved him all the more for his sense of duty. There was little doubt, after all, that the poor fellow would have _far_ preferred to chase Francesca…

The direct approach was fine, applied with her own finesse rather than with Ray’s in-your-face abruptness, of course. She simply had to give Fraser the chance to pick up from where they’d been so cruelly interrupted. Yes, that was it. And it had to be soon. Francesca was on a roll here – if she kept pushing then inertia would carry her through into the embrace of those strong arms.

Francesca picked up the silver frame from her dresser, and for the hundredth time examined the photo of Fraser she’d managed to wheedle out of him way back when he’d first come to Chicago. Way back before he’d figured out what a wonderful couple he and Francesca would make, way back before he’d realized he had to take this relationship oh-so-very delicately. Francesca sighed. Much as she loved Benton, she had to admit the fellow could be a bit slow sometimes.

This black-and-white photo showed Fraser in his natural element – looking very cuddly in a short and thick lumber-jacket, with his Stetson firmly on his head. One hand sought balance from the dark stone of a cliff or an outcrop of rock as he gazed off into the wilderness. Francesca put this down and reached for the other photo of him. This was in color, and framed in pink – one that she’d snapped during a family Sunday lunch. It was a more casual shot, of just his head and shoulders, with his expression quite relaxed and happy as he’d chatted with his good buddy Ray. Neither photo betrayed any self-consciousness – no doubt Fraser hadn’t known in either situation that he was being recorded for posterity and for Francesca’s day-dreams. What a very beautiful man.

Beautiful and honest, and surely appreciative of the direct approach. Benton Fraser wasn’t the sort to play games with people, or to take anything less than seriously.

OK, the direct approach took courage, but a Vecchio at his or her best was brave and resourceful. In fact, now Francesca thought of it, a Vecchio at her best and most determined was exactly the kind of person that a Mountie would admire. If poor Fraser was too shy and reticent to make a move, if he had been brought up to be too much the gentleman, then Francesca would have to do the running. But that was all right, because the prize was well and truly worth it.

Francesca would give Fraser the chance to answer her proposals, give him the opportunity to do something about her propositions. Tonight, while the whole thing was fresh in his mind, while it was still absolutely clear to them both where all this was heading. The poor fellow had probably been thinking of little else ever since those moments in the choir loft, just as she had. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was probably just as frustrated as she’d been.

OK, Francesca Vecchio pondered… now what would she need to assist her in this final phase of her noble campaign?

♦

Benton Fraser was walking down a modest string of shops in Ray Vecchio’s neighborhood with the cop pacing along beside him. Ray was wrapped up snugly in his long brown coat, though his head was bare to the Winter cold. Not that the weather ever became what Fraser would consider _uncomfortably_ cold in Chicago, not when compared to the extremes found in Tuktoyaktuk and Inuvik with a frozen wind sleeting in off the Beaufort Sea.

The Mountie and the Detective were walking down Belmont Street, heading for the corner of Harlem. They passed restaurants and clothing shops and a grocery, and a hairdresser that was closed despite the fact that it was a working day. There were plenty of cars and pedestrians about, though it seemed that not all of the local businesses were prospering.

‘So we’re not really tracking a criminal,’ Ray was saying. ‘What we’re tracking here is Pinocchio’s Dad.’ As usual, the Italian-American was communicating with gestures as well as words. Fraser found that, despite Ray’s expressive hands being hidden in leather gloves, they lost none of their meaning.

Fraser took the liberty of correcting his friend. ‘Geppetto was a wood-carver, Ray.’

‘He was not.’

‘Yes, he was. That’s how he made Pinocchio – out of wood.’

‘Then who was the shoe-maker?’ Ray asked.

‘I have no idea.’ They had now reached 844 Belmont. Fraser tried the door and found it securely locked. The whole place seemed deserted.

‘Well, sure you do,’ Ray was protesting, apparently placing great faith in Fraser’s store of arcane knowledge. ‘The Brothers Grimm, remember? There’s the poor shoe-maker who can’t feed his wife, so these little elves help him make shoes every night.’

‘They must have been rather interesting and well-crafted shoes,’ Fraser commented absently.

‘Superb, of course. Always wanted a pair myself.’

Fraser spared a tiny smile for the thought of the ever-nattily-dressed Ray Vecchio in a pair of elf shoes, though the Mountie was really paying more attention to the shoe-repair and shoe-making shop before them. The lower half of the windows had been painted green, presumably to keep out the worst effects of the sun. More recently, the signs above had been painted over in same color, though the words Quality Shoe Repair were still visible. ‘There’s very little dust on the windows,’ Fraser observed, ‘so he can’t have been out of business for long.’ Fraser and Ray both leaned closer to peer in through the windows, cupping hands round their eyes to create a shadow to look through.

‘Who says he went out of business?’ the cop asked absently. ‘Maybe he just packed up and moved on to another neighborhood.’ Ray was apparently still distracted by other matters, though, for he added, ‘I distinctly remember reading about shoes made by elves.’ Fraser’s private smile grew – catch a true detective’s curiosity, and the man wouldn’t rest until he’d found the answer.

‘The heavy machinery is still here,’ Fraser continued. ‘If the shoe-maker had intended to open a new shop, he would have taken it with him. My guess is that he didn’t have the option, so he took what he could carry, and he left.’ Fraser led Ray back down the sidewalk.

‘You mean to tell me you have _no_ recollection of any shoe-related elf stories?’

Fraser stopped and faced his friend in order to reassure him. With all the sincerity that he could muster, Fraser said, ‘Ray, I would tell you if I did.’

Ray nodded, though he was obviously still troubled by the matter. Fraser opened the front door of 848 Belmont, the shop next to the shoe-maker’s, and Ray followed him inside.

♦

Not immediately seeing any staff or customers in the little shop, Ray took the opportunity to look around him. Very pleasant, the cop thought, to see such a lot of rather enticing merchandise on display. Very nice indeed.

‘Hello!’ Fraser called out.

‘I’m with a customer, I’ll be right out,’ a woman replied from the back of the shop.

‘Ah.’ Fraser apparently thought he’d found someone else he could deal with. Clearing his throat, the man addressed a figure with long red hair. ‘Excuse me, I – Oh!’ The man was completely flummoxed to find that the figure was attired in nothing more than a green silk teddy. Ray watched with some amusement as Fraser stepped back, realized he’d been talking to a mostly-naked mannequin, took another step back and found himself in the clutches of a female form. Fighting off the second mannequin – this one done up in black underwear and platinum blond hair – Fraser said, ‘Ray, maybe you should conduct this interview.’

It would have to be one of the funniest things Ray had ever seen – the Mountie’s cool was thrown into complete disarray by the fact that he now inadvertently found himself in a lingerie shop. This man, who had faced death a thousand times with nary a blink, needed to avert his eyes from female mannequins and scraps of lace.

Ray managed to stop himself from laughing outright at Fraser’s discomfort. ‘It’s molded plastic, Benny, it’s not going to lunge out and assault you.’

‘You mean this? Well, if you think I’m embarrassed, you’re sorely mistaken.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s why you’re turning the shade of your uniform.’

Fraser loosened his collar as he looked around at the colorful variety of tiny garments displayed on the walls and hanging in rows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said in a firm tone that wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘It’s just hot in here, that’s all.’

A beautiful woman with tawny-blond hair strolled out from the back of the shop. Being the observant police officer that he was, Ray took note of the fact she was wearing a black low-cut blouse that showed off her best assets. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘Ah, yes, ma’am,’ said Fraser, apparently too nervous to remember he’d wanted Ray to do the work here.

Though Fraser had drawn breath to speak, the woman got in first. ‘Nice boots,’ she commented. The three of them all bent their heads to look at Constable Fraser’s dress uniform boots.

Oh yeah, thought Ray, so the woman liked knee-high lace-up boots. He supposed they fitted in with the current surroundings well enough.

‘Thank you,’ said the Mountie, taking the compliment at face value. ‘Um, my name is Constable Fraser, and this is Detective Vecchio.’

While the woman was obviously taken with Fraser, she acknowledged Ray with a silent _hello_ , which the cop thought was a big improvement on most women’s behavior when the Mountie was standing next to him.

At his absolute smoothest, Fraser continued, ‘Ah, we would like to ask you a question that is unrelated to either underwear or breasts.’

To her credit the woman was relatively unfazed by this. Ray supposed she must deal every day with ignorant husbands and bewildered boyfriends looking for the sexiest gifts they could cope with. Raising his eyebrows, Ray decided to rescue his pitiable friend before Fraser realized what he’d just said. ‘Yes, we would. Do you know who used to run the shoe-repair next door?’

‘Yeah, a guy called Joey,’ she replied. Fraser was paying serious attention to the conversation, until he got rather distracted by the lacy red suspender-belt in the woman’s hands, which she was attaching to a hanger. It seemed that Fraser had never seen such a thing before. ‘He was really nice.’

‘Does Joey have a last name?’ Ray asked.

‘I think it started with a P. He used to come in here for coffee sometimes. Sort of sweet and shy,’ the woman continued, looking directly at Fraser, ‘which personally I find _very_ sexy.’

Fraser had gone utterly blank. It seemed that the Mountie had done his thing again, and made an impression without even trying. As the woman headed for the serving counter up the front of the shop, Ray gathered up his pillar-of-salt friend and followed her over. ‘Yeah,’ Ray said, ‘do you know what happened to him?’

‘He went out of business about six months ago. It’s too bad.’ The woman sounded genuinely sorry. ‘Last time I saw him, Joey came in about two weeks before that, to get a present for his wife.’

The Mountie’s attention had been distracted again, this time by something displayed under the glass counter. He frowned as he leaned closer to get a better look. Judging by the puzzled expression, Ray suspected that Fraser couldn’t figure out what the item was for – and the cop wasn’t game enough to look himself for fear of being asked to explain it to the Mountie later.

The woman was continuing, ‘Joey had it all picked out, something really nice, but he couldn’t come up with the cash, so we made a deal. I don’t think his wife liked the camisole, though. She left him, took the kid, it was sad. He was hit real hard by it, you know how these sweet guys are.’

‘Yeah.’ Ray felt like saying, ‘If I had an actual Canadian Mountie vouch for my sweetness, would you have dinner with me tonight?’ Instead he asked, ‘Do you know where this guy is now?’

‘A girl who works here said she saw him going into one of those cheap hotels over on Diversey.’

Fraser asked, ‘Is she here?’

While the woman had been answering Ray’s questions, she was happy to be responding to Fraser again. ‘No, she’s on vacation. Anything else I can do for you?’

This last was said very suggestively… Ray wondered if the Mountie realized there was a situation here to be taken advantage of.

‘Er, yes,’ said Fraser. ‘You said that you did a deal for the camisole.’ Ray was surprised to find that the Mountie must have been listening after all. ‘What did that involve?’

‘Yeah, he made me this.’ And the beautiful tawny-blond woman standing before them proceeded to unbutton her blouse. It wasn’t that she was matter-of-fact or cool about it, for she knew very well what she was doing – but she was as completely unflustered as Eve must have been before she ate that apple. The woman pushed the blouse back and propped her hands on her waist to display a black bustier. It fit snugly round her waist, and cupped her lovely plump breasts, modestly flattering them with a strip of lace. She had the most perfect creamy skin.

_Very nice_ , thought Ray. Very very nice. This was turning out to be rather a good day after all.

Fraser said, ‘May I, er –’

‘Sure.’

Ray gaped. The Mountie was bending down and leaning over the counter to get his face right up close to the bustier. As Fraser shifted around to examine it all in great detail, Ray managed to lift his disbelieving gaze to meet the woman’s – and found she was smiling. Oh yeah, he loved that she knew exactly what she was doing, and was enjoying every minute of it, not even minding the cop looking on. Though Ray himself would never risk this of course – Ray’s only reward would be a slap in the face. He contented himself with enjoying the best of traditional female assets from a slightly greater distance than the Mountie.

‘Ah, yes,’ Fraser was murmuring, ‘it’s very beautiful…’ and he paused with his mouth an _inch_ away from her lovely breasts… ‘leather.’

‘Uh huh,’ she agreed.

Inspection complete now, Fraser stood up guard-duty straight, and his frown of concentration lifted. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

As Fraser turned away to leave, Ray was unsurprised to see that the Mountie was smiling. Ray would have been smiling, too. The hell of it was, Ray reflected, he’d taken Heather out on five lunch dates now, and he hadn’t even held her hand yet, though he’d managed to press a few friendly goodbye-kisses to her cheek – and here was Fraser with his face in the bosom of a beautiful woman whose name he didn’t even know. The shy retiring Mountie, forever innocent and bumbling around women. The cop chased his friend to the door, asking, ‘How do you get away with that?’

‘With what?’ Fraser replied as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Behind them, the woman began buttoning up her blouse.

‘You know damn well with what,’ Ray complained. ‘You might be dumb, Fraser, but you’re not stupid.’

The two men headed off down the street, past the shoe-repair shop. Fraser observed, ‘It was hand-stitched. Very delicate and skillful work.’

‘Yeah, it had quality written all over it,’ Ray said appreciatively. Another stride or two, and then they both recalled that the Riviera was parked in the other direction. Without a word the cop and the Mountie turned around, and walked back past the lingerie shop, carefully not looking inside. ‘Ah, Fraser,’ Ray murmured, ‘how are we ever going to follow up an interview like that?’

♦

Inside the lingerie shop, a commotion bustled out of the fitting rooms. Francesca Vecchio laid a garment bag on the serving counter, and said to the woman, ‘I’ll take it, but I’ll need it altered for tonight.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, we’re kind of backed up right now.’

Francesca stared hard at the woman, projecting all her determination. ‘ _Look_ , I’ll pay anything, understand? This is worth _any_ amount of money.’

♦

Ray parked the Riv on Diversey Street, but before he got out he rummaged through his coat pockets for his cap. After a few hours of pale but welcome sunshine it was now snowing lightly, and although it was still early afternoon it felt like the day was closing in. Fraser was already climbing out of the car and placing his Stetson firmly on his head, though as usual he didn’t seem bothered by the cold.

Diversey could not be described as a captivating or motivating place. There were a couple of modern low-rent office buildings, no doubt catering for struggling businesses and welfare agencies. Otherwise, the street mostly consisted of large houses, decades past their heyday, converted into boarding houses. A newsstand stood forlorn on one corner, and a small general store that had been there forever was apparently still making ends meet. There were plenty of people walking past, perhaps having nothing better to do with their time and no place else to be. Ray Vecchio could only wish he didn’t happen to be one of them.

‘What are we doing here, Fraser?’ he asked, catching up with the Mountie on the sidewalk.

‘Well, we know that the shoe-maker took his tools with him, Ray. We know that he’s bartered his services once, so the chances are that he’s still doing so. We also know his first name, and possibly the initial of his second. I believe we are making good progress.’

Ray sighed. He was beginning to get a feel for how Fraser’s convoluted little mind worked. ‘Let me guess,’ the cop said. ‘We’re now going to wander up and down Diversey until we find Cinderella with freshly soled shoes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great.’ Ray was singularly unimpressed by this plan. If anyone else had proposed it, Ray would have dismissed the whole thing as a needle-in-a-haystack search that wasn’t worth his time and effort. However, he had to admit that the Mountie seemed to have a knack for finding what he wanted no matter what the odds against it – perhaps because Fraser put his faith into expecting what Ray would consider the unexpected.

Begrudgingly putting his faith in Fraser’s expectations, Ray followed the man into the nearest hotel. It was a dingy and depressing place. Ray sent a quick prayer up thanking God for the Vecchio family home – though it could often be chaos, it was at least full of life.

They met their first candidate in the hallway. She was a plump old lady with white hair, dressed brightly in purple. Fraser smiled at her, took his hat off, and endeavored to briefly explain his current mission.

‘You want to see my shoes?’ she asked for the sake of clarification. She was beaming eagerly up at Fraser, in the way that most women did, despite the fact she looked old enough to be the Mountie’s grandmother. Times like this, Ray found he didn’t get at all jealous of the inadvertent effect that this man had on the female of the species.

‘Yes, ma’am, I would, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Why should I mind?’ she asked with a laugh. ‘It’s the best offer I’ve had in years.’

Ray smiled, deciding he had to admire the old woman for showing some spirit.

Fraser knelt down and lifted each of her feet in turn. ‘That’s very nice, very nice indeed. Thank you,’ Fraser said politely. Addressing Ray, he continued _sotto voce_ , ‘Machine-made, not recently repaired.’

This was going to take forever, Ray figured with another sigh. He couldn’t believe Lieutenant Welsh had actually sent him off on this crazy goose chase, and all because that scum Frank Zuko had decided to act moralistic for once in his unfortunate life. Zuko had to have a better reason than that to be interested.

They went through all the occupants of the boarding house – all those that were home and a few visitors, anyway – the Mountie examining their shoes, and the Detective asking after anyone named Joey P-something. No luck. They moved on to the next hotel along.

When Ray’s turn came he found himself down on one knee before a trans-woman, black-stockinged feet and black velvet pumps in his hands. She had fantastic legs, but Ray had to admit he was distracted by thoughts of that woman in the lingerie shop, who was Ray’s type and then some. ‘Thanks,’ Ray said absently.

‘You’re welcome,’ this woman said to Ray in a very suggestive tone.

As he stood up Ray looked at Fraser, wondering if the Canadian had much idea about people who transformed from one gender to another. Maybe he did or maybe he hadn’t even noticed, but Fraser had his bland expression plastered on very thickly indeed, which made Ray suspect Fraser was still processing the encounter. The pair of them nodded a farewell at the woman, and headed for their next candidate – Ray vaguely wondering how Fraser would have coped if he’d become Ray’s unofficial partner back when Ray was working in the Vice unit.

True to form, Benton Fraser soon gathered the attentions of all the young ladies in the neighborhood. Word spread like wildfire that the handsome prince had at last arrived, and all that was missing in the scenario was a glass slipper. Ray Vecchio was left to perform crowd control. ‘Queue forms on the left,’ he called, shepherding them into some kind of order. ‘Don’t crowd him, ladies.’ The women were all giggling and excited, lining up with their arms full of shoes, filling the corridor and spilling up the stairway. ‘Let’s be reasonable and do this one at a time.’

Soon growing tired of that activity, Ray wandered off to do his bit with the less impressionable women. Seemed there were a few who weren’t going to make the effort to go see Prince Charming – like this rather ample and very cantankerous woman who was firmly ensconced in her armchair, and wasn’t about to move for anyone. Crouched down on his poor abused knees, Ray wrestled with her unwieldy leg in a vain effort to see her sole. Within moments, however, she was fending him off with a rolled-up newspaper. ‘Hey!’ he cried indignantly, feeling this was grossly unfair. ‘Give me a break, lady. I told you I just want to look at your damned shoes!’

‘Then be a gentleman about it,’ she retorted.

‘I asked you nice as I know how!’ Ray sat back on his heels, keeping one wary arm up in case she laid into him with the paper again. ‘Well, do you know anyone called Joey?’

‘No. And if I did I sure wouldn’t send you after him.’

‘Great. Thank you. No, really – thank you very kindly indeed.’ Ray gave up on the whole stupid plan, and headed back outside to the Winter day.

Ah, the delights of police-work, he grumbled silently to himself. The glamour of it all, the unmitigated joy of this his chosen career. The inspiration of spending every day fighting for the lofty ideals of truth and justice. Wonderful.

It seemed that Fraser had finally freed himself from the clutches of several dozen hopeful princesses, for Ray met up with him on the sidewalk. The Riviera was parked on the street there, looking more like sanctuary than ever.

Unfortunately, Fraser had spotted yet another woman. This was an older one, scrawnier than Ray’s last candidate, though she appeared to be just as tough. She was on her hands and knees on the front steps of a boarding house, maybe scrubbing said steps, or maybe tending the little patch of garden that struggled bravely amidst the concrete.

‘Ray, do you want to…?’ the Mountie asked.

‘Why the hell would I?’ Ray muttered sourly in reply, not really meaning for his friend to hear him.

‘Because you enjoy participating in working through our shared caseload.’

‘Yeah, sure, Benny.’ And it really was the cop’s jurisdiction, and he was under his Lieutenant’s orders, but Ray just couldn’t face the prospect of yet another pair of shoes attached to the hundredth crabby old dear he’d dealt with that afternoon. ‘However, this one’s all yours.’

‘All right,’ Fraser agreed good-naturedly. And he headed off towards the woman while Ray escaped to his car.

♦

Fraser approached the woman in question. As she had her back to him, and was on all fours, it was easy enough to see that her shoes did indeed look freshly soled. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said as he drew closer. She was about to clamber upright to greet him, so Fraser quickly added, ‘No – please, stay right where you are.’

With his hands on the step below hers and his feet on the sidewalk, Fraser lowered himself into a push-up in order to avoid dirtying the knees of his best pair of trousers. He leaned in close to examine the work done on her shoes, as she turned to peer suspiciously around her shoulder at him.

From behind him, Fraser heard the purr of the Riviera’s window powering down. ‘Ah, the dignity of police-work,’ a certain Chicago cop opined in a quiet tone that was nevertheless intended to carry. And the window purred closed again.

Tipping his hat at the woman, Fraser asked, ‘Ma’am, do you know a shoe-maker named Joey?’

‘Joey Paducci, yes. He has a room here.’

Fraser smiled with both gratitude and self-satisfaction. It appeared that Ray had given up just one interview too early. ‘Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP. I need to talk with Mr. Paducci. Can you help me?’

Within moments Joey Paducci’s landlady was leading Fraser up to the second floor of her boarding house and down a hallway, both hands sorting through an enormous ring of keys. ‘He’s a nice man, Constable,’ she explained on the way. ‘Quiet and helpful, no trouble at all. He moved in a few months ago. Never has much money, but he always pays the rent on time, one way or another, all of which is more than I can say for some.’ As they reached the door to what Fraser assumed was Paducci’s room, she thought to ask, ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘No, but I’m familiar with his work.’ Fraser noted that she didn’t leap to the conclusion that Joey Paducci was in trouble with the law.

The landlady knocked on the door. ‘Mr. Paducci, I have callers for you.’ A few moments passed, and it became obvious that there would be no reply. She said to Fraser with certainty, ‘I’m sure he’s in there.’

‘Could you open the door, please, ma’am?’

Having already located the right key, the landlady opened the room up and walked in, looking around her.

Fraser immediately noticed that the window was wide open – which was strange for a Winter day unless someone had just exited through it. He was halfway out of the window, sitting on the sill, before he’d consciously decided to take action. ‘Thank you kindly,’ he said to the landlady. ‘Ray!’ he called in the direction of the street. Turning back inside for a moment, Fraser reassured the rather startled woman – ‘I’ll see myself out.’ And he jumped down into the alley from the second floor window, unfortunately kicking over a trash can as he landed in a roll.

A good few meters ahead of Fraser, Joey Paducci was running down a track leading across the block, his denim-clad legs skittering as the snow provided a lack of sure footing, his long brown hair blowing back. The man burst through a pair of wooden gates, and gathered speed as he saw the next street just ahead.

Gaining on Paducci – perhaps because he felt far more certain about running on snow and ice than did his quarry – Fraser was nevertheless glad to hear the screech of tires as Ray pulled his car up across the mouth of the alley. While this maneuver didn’t entirely block Paducci’s path, it would at least slow him down. And Ray was out of his car, running towards Paducci, shouting, ‘Hey, you! Freeze!’

Joey Paducci took in the sight ahead of him, glanced back to see Fraser bearing down. Looked wildly around, but he was between two more buildings and their fences now, and there were no other routes available.

‘Chicago PD! Freeze.’

The man hesitated, and knew that he was lost. Visibly gave in.

‘OK, up against the wall,’ Ray ordered as he reached Paducci.

Raising both hands, Paducci let Ray push him to lean his weight against the wall. Ray began frisking him, briskly patting down his torso and legs, then his pockets. Finding something of interest in the man’s right coat pocket, Ray reached for it while keeping one careful hand heavy between Paducci’s shoulder-blades. Ray’s brows lifted, and he showed his find to Fraser, proudly announcing, ‘Spindle-bin, I presume.’

Taking the liberty of correcting him, Fraser said, ‘It’s a bindlestitch, Ray.’

‘Like there’s a difference,’ the cop scoffed, letting Fraser take the evidence and drawing out his handcuffs. He began the formal part of the arrest, reciting the man’s rights as if Ray had no respect for this or as if it bored him.

Fraser listened to the cop with only half his attention, knowing he could rely on Ray not to create any procedural problems – like all police officers, they had both seen too many cases fail on technicalities. Apart from which, Fraser recognized the important principles behind the Miranda warnings, though of course they weren’t required in Canada.

While examining the bindlestitch, Fraser noted that Joey Paducci was giving Ray only half of his attention, too. For Paducci was looking at Fraser with curiosity and surprise and sheer terror in his eyes. Yes, sheer terror. Fraser wondered why.

♦

Detective Louis Gardino was loitering around the squad room enjoying a little peace and quiet while the Lieutenant was elsewhere. Not that there was ever any actual peace or quiet here – the place was busy, people were dealing with reports and witnesses and perps, phones were constantly ringing. Meanwhile, Louis was hanging around with his partner Detective Jack Huey, and Elaine Besbriss the indispensable Civilian Aid worker. The three of them were pondering this strange thing that Fraser said was called a bindlestitch.

Elaine held the tool up between them by its wooden handle, and they all stared at its metal shaft and curved, two-pronged tip. ‘Odd,’ she said, ‘very odd. I guess I’m used to thinking of mass-manufacturing and machines.’

‘Ah, but nothing beats a good pair of handmade leather shoes,’ Huey commented.

‘Absolutely,’ Louis agreed, though he’d never even contemplated buying his shoes anywhere other than the supermarket. He couldn’t afford anything else, after all, unlike his partner who wasn’t over-burdened with alimony payments. And Louis kind of liked looking at the rows and rows of shelves in K-Mart crammed with all sorts of useful styles in every different size – an abundance of affordable riches for the commoner. Surely it took just as much ingenuity, if not more, to make a shoe-making machine as it did to make the actual shoes.

Actually, now Louis examined the tool again, he noticed how sharp it was – and Louis suddenly found himself glad it was the evidence in a robbery and not a murder.

Elaine was musing, ‘Seems like it belongs to a different time and place.’

‘A _better_ time and place?’ Huey asked her, maybe sounding interested.

‘Yes.’ A dreamy expression settled on her face.

Louis glanced hopefully across at his partner. Jack Huey was a fine-looking man, an African-American with the darkest skin and traditional features. He always dressed classy – though with far more stylish understatement than Ray Vecchio, who tended towards Italian flamboyance – and Huey was the type of guy who had his own personal tailor. It often seemed that Jack’s only mission in life was to make Louis Gardino look shabby and slow and stupid.

Nevertheless, Louis had a fond little plan, and it involved Jack Huey actually getting around to responding to Elaine as a woman rather than a colleague. Every now and then Louis thought he’d glimpsed something beneath Jack’s cool exterior, something that indicated the man might be aware of Elaine’s attractions. It made sense to Louis, for after all the two shared some kind of kinship and understanding due to their race.

Elaine Besbriss was also of African-American descent, though she had paler skin than Jack, kind of a nice milky-coffee color, and more delicate features. They only ever saw her at work, which meant she was always wearing her boring blue uniform shirt and pants, though even those clothes couldn’t hide her charms.

Compared to these two, Louis Gardino was all too aware of his curly ginger hair, his coarsely featured face, and his dress sense that remained ramshackle no matter how hard he tried. And anyway he loved this old leather jacket, it was like a second skin to him, and tartan ties were cool no matter what conservative old Huey thought.

Jack Huey and Elaine Besbriss, yeah, that had been Gardino’s little plan. Except that the Mountie had arrived in Chicago some months ago, and thrown everything into chaos. Elaine had immediately cast Constable Benton Fraser in the role of her handsome prince. The impossibly obnoxious Ray Vecchio had finally found a partner he could work with. Which meant that Ray’s fledgling friendship with Elaine – and Louis was sure he wasn’t imagining it when he thought the two were actually relating as friends rather than as demanding Detective and useful lackey – anyway, their attempted friendship had sunk leaving no trace evidence, because she was jealous that Ray was the Mountie’s partner and she wasn’t. Meanwhile, of course, Huey just sat coolly back and missed out, for Huey was never one to get embroiled in the emotional side of life. It was all quite a pity, really, though Fraser himself was OK to have around.

As for Louis Gardino – Well, Louis watched all the drama from the sidelines, left on the bench as usual. He wouldn’t mind getting a bit embroiled, if he was welcome, even though with three divorces under his belt he should have learned better by now. No, Louis had never been one for sitting coolly back, and that was the main reason he and Huey had taken years to even begin to understand each other.

‘Then it was Rumpelstiltskin,’ Elaine was saying. ‘Didn’t he use one of these?’

Oh yeah, thought Louis – the current topic was bindlestitches, not possible romances. He offered, ‘Rumpelstiltskin was a dwarf, right? And dwarfs don’t make shoes, they hide under bridges.’

Huey disagreed, though of course that was nothing new. ‘Dwarfs are miners. You’re thinking of trolls.’ The man took the bindlestitch from Elaine and turned it in his hands to examine it further.

‘Trolls and bridges, right. Wasn’t there a story about three goats and a troll on a bridge? Or was that one goat and three trolls?’

‘I don’t know.’ Elaine asked, ‘Who was it that made shoes?’

Louis said with a laugh, ‘Vecchio was mumbling something about shoe-making elves.’

‘Shows you how much he knows.’ And Huey suggested, ‘What about Glinda, the good witch in _The Wizard of Oz_?’

Deep down inside, Louis Gardino grinned triumphantly. It didn’t often happen that he got the opportunity to correct Jack Huey. ‘No,’ Louis said, very seriously, ‘that was about magic, not making things. And they were slippers, not shoes.’

‘Whatever.’ Huey shrugged, and handed the tool back to Elaine.

The woman had a sweet smile on her face. She wandered away with her back to the two men, and said in dreamy tones, ‘I always wanted a pair of ruby slippers. I used to try on my mother’s high heel shoes, standing in front of the mirror. Then I’d click my heels together three times and say… There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.’

That lovely voice with all its modulations cast quite the spell. Caught up in the image she painted, and remembering his own long-gone years of day-dreams, Louis said, ‘Me, too.’

Elaine spun around to face him, looking rather surprised. Louis risked a glance at Huey, and met the man’s cool assessing gaze. He quickly looked back at Elaine.

‘What?’ Louis asked defensively.

As the woman arched one amused eyebrow, Louis realized what he’d said.

‘Er, well,’ Louis quickly stammered out, ‘you know,’ he continued with a shrug, ‘I wanted to be the Tin Man.’

Huey let out a laugh and said flatly, ‘You wanted to be the Tin Man.’

‘Yeah, sure. What’s wrong with that?’

‘The Tin Man had no heart. Louie,’ Jack said, ‘you’re _all_ heart. You’re nothing _but_ heart.’ And he made it sound like having a heart was the worst thing in the world. ‘Don’t try to tell me you wanted to be the Tin Man.’

‘That’s _Louis_ ,’ he asserted. Another uncomfortable shrug. ‘I dressed up like the Tin Man, and my sister would dress up as Dorothy.’

Elaine was nodding, wanting to hear more. ‘Uh huh…’

Huey was standing there, hands in his pockets, wrinkling his skeptical brow.

Louis gave a heavy sigh, realizing that he was just digging himself in deeper. Shaking his head in complete denial, he said, ‘I almost _never_ played with my sister.’

‘Sure,’ said Huey.

Looking for an escape route, Louis happened to see Lieutenant Welsh walk past the glass doors of the squad room, deep in conversation with one of the uniformed officers. ‘What?’ Louis called, though of course Welsh hadn’t even seen him. ‘Oh yeah. Coming!’

And Louis Gardino was out of there, though he was all too aware of Jack Huey’s disparaging smirk. Yeah, Louis knew the guy well enough to know exactly what it looked like. It wasn’t a pretty sight at all.

♦

Ray Vecchio’s desk was tucked away in the darkest and least welcoming corner of the squad room, surrounded by filing cabinets and other office paraphernalia, and so positioned that Ray had to sit with his back to a door. Fraser had often wondered whether Ray had chosen the location so as to be away from the majority of the activity in the room, or whether it had been chosen for him. He suspected the latter, for it seemed that Fraser and Ray had at least one thing in common – they both knew all about being the least popular member of a team. Which was unfortunate, for while Ray could at times be a challenging person to interact with, and was often his own worst enemy in this regard, he was still a good law enforcement officer and did not deserve to be hampered in his work.

In an effort to help rather than hinder, Fraser was sitting in Ray’s chair and beginning to type up an arrest report on the Detective’s behalf – of the two of them, Fraser definitely had the edge when it came to speed and accuracy on a keyboard.

Ray was occupying Fraser’s usual spot on the visitor’s chair across the desk, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. Joey Paducci was on a spare chair they had dragged over for him, sitting at the end of the desk and talking to Ray. Apparently they were swapping a few non-controversial reminiscences about the neighborhood they’d shared all their lives.

Paducci had decency in his eyes and a sad expression on his face. He had a small moustache and long brown hair, but his most noticeable feature was a high forehead. The shabbiness of his clothes bore out what other people had said of his financial troubles – but their cleanliness and state of repair indicated that Paducci had his pride.

The man was still nervous, but he seemed to have decided that he could trust Ray and Fraser’s intentions, for Paducci was willing to tell them his story.

‘You understand that you’re waiving your rights?’ Ray asked him. ‘You don’t have to talk to us without a lawyer present.’

‘I don’t care about all that,’ Paducci said. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Detective, and I don’t care.’

‘If you can’t afford a lawyer, I can call Caroline Wilson from Legal Aid.’ Ray cast Fraser a wry smile. ‘Me and Fraser, we get along fine with Caroline. She would advise you not to talk to us, and we would blunder around asking questions until you just couldn’t stand it any longer and voluntarily blurted out what we wanted to know. Crazy thing is, half the time we end up exonerating her clients anyhow.’

It seemed that Ray’s humor and caution weren’t necessary. ‘I need to tell someone,’ Paducci explained. ‘You know how long I’ve been living with this? And I couldn’t tell anyone, I didn’t even go to confession for fear I’d talk to the wrong person about the wrong things.’

‘Tell me, then,’ Ray Vecchio said.

Fraser kept typing, but he also paid attention to the conversation.

‘It wasn’t so long ago, I had everything,’ Paducci began. ‘I was a happy man, Detective. My trade is shoe-repairs, and I’m good at it. Back then I even did some shoe-making for a few customers, specialized stuff. I worked out of a place on Belmont. You know the shops there?’

‘Yeah, we went to your shop today.’

‘Well, it was nothing fancy, you know, but I’m making a living, I’m doing all right. Then one day these wiseguys pay me a visit.’

Ray tilted his head towards Fraser, and advised, ‘Wiseguys are what we call the Mafia now, Benny.’

Fraser nodded his understanding of this term.

‘These wiseguys,’ Paducci continued, ‘they tell me I’m not paying my neighborhood association dues. They say they want fifty bucks a week.’ The man shrugged. ‘Maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but any business carries overheads, you know? And I had an apartment to maintain, a wife who likes to go out, a new baby girl –’

The man broke off, and looked down at his hands. These were obviously particularly difficult memories to deal with. Fraser quit typing, and began paying more attention to Paducci’s story.

‘Yeah, fifty bucks a week. Anyway, six months later it’s up to sixty-five a week, then eighty-five, then a hundred.’

Fraser frowned, guessing what the results were at least in Joey Paducci’s case. ‘But that’s not sensible,’ he interjected. ‘I understand that these people are motivated by greed, but increasing the dues so high that their victims are forced out of business is very short term thinking. The whole purpose of the association is defeated.’

Ray let out a breath. ‘This particular wiseguy we’re dealing with –’

‘Frank Zuko,’ Paducci supplied, perhaps guessing that Ray had been avoiding leading him by naming names.

‘Yeah. Frankie is smart in a lot of ways, but not in others.’

‘A hundred a week, I was having all kinds of trouble meeting that. I could hardly put food on the table for my family. But that was one bill I wasn’t going to let fall overdue.’

Ray quietly asked, ‘Did they threaten you?’

‘Who was to threaten?’ Paducci asked rhetorically. ‘I’m not stupid.’

A pause lengthened, and Fraser took the opportunity to study his friend sitting across the desk. Ray was looking rather sad, and he was obviously sorry for Joey Paducci, all of which was completely understandable given the story they were listening to – it was apparent that this tale would not end with everyone living happily ever after no matter what Ray and Fraser now did. What was unusual was that Ray Vecchio wasn’t bothering to hide his innate empathy. Fraser had long known it was there, but Ray habitually covered it up with his noise and bluster and sarcasm. For some reason, no doubt connected to Frank Zuko or to the neighborhood in general, this case had touched a deeply personal chord in Ray.

‘Pretty soon I can’t afford to pay for the phone,’ Paducci said, ‘or utilities. I fall behind on the rent, I can’t afford to take my wife out to dinner. So I go to Zuko, and I tell him I need some relief.’

Ray nodded. ‘That was brave.’

‘It was stupid, but I had to try. He says to me –’ and Paducci imitated Frank Zuko’s affable manner – ‘Don’t worry about it, Joey, the payments are strictly voluntary.’ The man sighed. ‘I get back to my place and the front window’s broken. And you’ve been there before, I bet – no one saw who did it, though it’s patently obvious.’

‘Yeah, we’ve been there,’ said Ray.

‘You know how much a plate glass shopfront window costs to replace? It didn’t exactly help my situation. Five months later I’m on the street. By then I couldn’t even pay Zuko’s wiseguys, I owed them three hundred dollars. And my wife –’

Until now, Paducci’s honest sense of outrage and his plea for understanding had provided him with energy and motivation for telling his tale. But once again they had hit the difficult memories. Paducci almost became tearful.

‘My wife left me, took our little girl with her. I don’t even know where they are.’ A pause to take breath, to summon a half-smile and forgiveness. ‘I can’t blame her. There was nothing much to stay around for.’ Paducci looked up, met Ray’s gaze very directly. They had come to the crux of the tale. ‘So yesterday when I saw Zuko stick that hundred dollar bill in the poor-box, all I could think was – that’s _my_ money. I just wanted some of that back.’

Ray nodded in understanding.

Paducci cried out, ‘That’s _fair_ , isn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ Ray said with careful sympathy. ‘But it’s also against the law.’

Fraser asked, ‘Could you identify these men?’

The fellow had heard the question, but he was immediately shaking his head and dismissing the idea.

Letting out a gusty sigh, Ray said, ‘You know, Benny, there’s nothing illegal about a voluntary neighborhood association, I’ve been down that path too many times.’

‘I just wasn’t brave enough to do something, you know?’

It was Joey Paducci who had spoken, but the man’s puzzled regret obviously meant something to Ray Vecchio – Fraser watched as his friend’s focus became internal for a long moment. And then he was listening to Paducci again.

‘He took my business,’ the man was pleading, ‘he took my family – he took my _life_. And I pretty much just let him. I should have done something.’ Paducci brushed away a single errant tear. ‘I should have done something.’

♦

‘Vecchio.’

It was, of course, Lieutenant Welsh. Caught halfway back to his desk where Fraser was still typing away at the arrest report, Ray changed course. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Was that the poor-box thief?’

‘The shoe-maker? Yes, sir. I just took him down to holding. Fraser and I got a confession out of him,’ Ray added. Ordinarily he would have added some proud bluster to this last piece of information, but the memory of Joey Paducci sitting in the holding cells was too fresh in Ray’s mind. The man had obediently accompanied Ray down there, and then just sat where he was told, kind of too bleak and passive to even be sad any more, as if finally relating his story had drained him of all spirit.

‘Would you and the Mountie care to congregate in my office?’ Welsh invited. ‘Huey, Louie – if you’re not doing anything useful, join us…’

‘That’s Louis, sir,’ came the automatic response that no one ever paid any attention to.

Elaine was left to wander back to her desk alone while the men assembled in Welsh’s office. Ray cast her a wry smile, and closed the door behind him.

‘So what do we have?’ the Lieutenant asked as he sat back comfortably behind his desk. The others all found a place to stand within the confines of the small office, and settled in to listen.

‘Joey Paducci, shoe-maker,’ Ray breezily summarized. ‘He was paying Zuko’s extortion money until it got to be so much it forced him out of business. His wife took their child and left him. When he saw Zuko put the money in the poor-box, Paducci felt like it was his, so he took it. End of story.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it ends here,’ Welsh said ominously. ‘What next?’

‘Well, we arrested Paducci, but Father Behan from St Michael’s hasn’t actually pressed charges yet, sir.’

‘No? How did that happen?’

Ray lifted his shoulders in an extended shrug. Being the center of attention in Welsh’s office like this always brought him trouble. ‘Actually, we were there at St Michael’s when the crime took place, sir.’

‘We, as in…?’

‘Me and Fraser, sir.’

‘And you failed to prevent the crime being committed, or to apprehend the man at the scene?’

‘Yes, sir. We were up in the choir loft,’ Ray offered in an attempt at explanation.

Gardino snickered, presumably for the sake of discomforting Ray even further. Well, it wasn’t as if singing in church choirs was anything demeaning or emasculating – not like doing figure-skating or ballroom dancing, for example, or wearing tartan ties.

Welsh asked, ‘And what were you doing there?’

‘It’s my parish church, sir, and Fraser recently joined the choir as he advised you earlier this afternoon.’ When Ray saw Welsh nod, he plunged on with his report. ‘Anyway, Fraser brought the poor-box in here for examination, and then Zuko called you, we found Paducci – I guess I should go talk to Father Behan now and get him to file a complaint.’

‘I guess you should, Detective,’ the Lieutenant agreed.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Any thoughts as to why Frank Zuko is making a song and dance about the incident? Did you interview him?’

Ah, Ray thought, now this was the heart of the matter. ‘Yes, we did interview him but, no, I don’t know what his interest is. He did a lot of posturing about not letting a criminal element creep into the neighborhood, sir.’

Huey and Gardino succumbed to disbelieving laughter. ‘He _is_ the criminal element,’ Louis was wise enough to observe.

‘And that could be why,’ Huey suggested. ‘Zuko has everything in the area all stitched up, and he doesn’t want anything going on that he doesn’t get a cut of.’

‘Could be,’ the Lieutenant mused. ‘Any other theories?’

Huey continued, ‘The shoe-maker stole what Zuko saw as _his_ money – he wants to make sure the guy is punished for it.’

‘Could be.’

Ray tilted his head, and laid his best guess on the line. ‘Maybe it goes back further than this. Maybe Zuko has some bad history with Paducci, personal stuff, and he’s letting us do his dirty work for him. Trouble with the law could be good revenge for something in the past.’

‘But did he _know_ that Paducci was the thief?’ Welsh asked.

‘Well, no, sir,’ Ray replied. He could have guessed he’d be shot down in flames. ‘Zuko said he couldn’t give us a description beyond the fact there was a man in the assembly of the church.’

Welsh let out a sigh.

Gardino offered, ‘We all know his thinking’s got some warps in it. Maybe Zuko really does believe Paducci’s the bad guy and Frank Zuko’s just a concerned citizen.’

Fraser had remained silent all this time, but he now said, ‘From what I observed, Frank Zuko is certainly capable of thinking and reacting at different levels – but below the necessary surface pretense of innocence, I don’t believe he is dishonest to himself. He knows who and what he is.’

OK, thought Ray, and he gave it another try. ‘Maybe he _did_ know Paducci was the culprit, but Zuko was cool enough not to point us in the obvious direction.’

‘Maybe,’ Welsh said. ‘Did he give you any hints at all that led you to the shoe-maker?’

Ray shook his head, thoughtful, glancing at Fraser just in case he’d missed anything. ‘No, he didn’t. We found Paducci on our own.’

‘That requires a lot of cool, and a lot of trust in your investigative abilities, isn’t that right, Detective?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there some public event coming up,’ Huey suggested, ‘or something to do with your church, Ray, where Zuko wants to come across as the good guy?’

With horror in his eyes, Gardino said, ‘Maybe he’s planning on running for office.’

Everyone kind of shuddered at the thought, and then fell to shrugging and muttering, at a loss.

The Mountie made another contribution. ‘Are we in danger of focusing on the wrong person?’ he asked. ‘If we continue to pursue the actual crime that’s been committed, any other puzzle should eventually become clear. In the meantime, perhaps we are letting Frank Zuko distract us.’

‘Now, that’s an idea,’ Gardino said. ‘What is he distracting us from? Maybe he’s planning something else for while our backs are turned.’

But Ray gave Fraser an irritable scowl. Sometimes the Mountie just wouldn’t get with the program. ‘Louie, this petty little robbery is hardly going to tie up the whole precinct, is it? And, Fraser, Paducci and his hundred dollars aren’t the issue here, OK? Trust me on that.’

‘The issue is Frank Zuko?’ Fraser asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

Welsh was still ruminating, and hopefully hadn’t noticed this lapse in judgement from Ray’s unofficial partner. ‘Was there anything in Paducci’s story that we could use against Zuko?’ the Lieutenant asked.

Ray stood taller again to reply to his boss. ‘No, sir. It was all dressed up as neighborhood association dues, and no actual threats were made.’

‘They did break his shopfront window,’ Fraser reminded him.

‘But there were no witnesses, it’s all circumstantial.’

‘All right,’ Welsh said with the tone that meant he was wrapping this up. ‘Go talk to the priest, Vecchio, take the Mountie with you. Deal with the poor-box robbery, but keep pushing the Zuko angle.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And all of you – keep it simmering in the back of your minds. If you come up with anything brilliant, let me know. I think we’re all singing from the same hymn book.’

But Fraser was giving them his blank expression. ‘Hymn book, sir?’

Ray glared at him. ‘Paducci isn’t the issue, Fraser,’ he said very firmly. ‘You heard Joey’s story, he’s not the bad guy. Frank Zuko is the one who belongs behind bars.’

‘Oh,’ said the Mountie.

Welsh said with the lightest of ironies, ‘It is high time that Frank Zuko made the acquaintance of Justice. She has been waiting on him fifteen years.’

‘You know about justice, Benny?’ Ray persisted. ‘The demands of justice? Every cop and State’s Attorney in Chicago has been trying to get Zuko put away for years. At least, every cop he isn’t paying off. We’ve been hanging out for the opportunity, any opportunity, all right? And none have been forthcoming.’

‘Oh,’ said Fraser.

Ray stared at his friend, and sighed. Perhaps this was all a bit more serious and complicated than crime in the Yukon, where no doubt a guy was fined if he uttered anything worse than _darn_ , and then he confessed and repented and that was the end of it. ‘Come on,’ Ray said to Fraser. ‘Let’s go see Father Behan.’

Which was when Welsh’s phone rang. He picked it up and said, ‘Twenty-seventh, Lieutenant Welsh.’ A pause as the other four men began filing out through the office door and into the squad room. ‘Ah,’ said Welsh to his caller, ‘Mr. Zuko. How may I help you?’

‘Speak of the devil,’ Ray muttered loudly enough to carry, ‘and hear the flutter of his sooty little wings.’

Fraser quickly ushered him out, and shut the door behind them.

♦

Samuel, a long-retired carpenter who spent much of his time now doing maintenance work at St Michael’s, was repairing the wall where the old poor-box used to be and preparing it to receive a new one. Fraser watched him for a few moments, fascinated as always to see a skilled craftsperson at his or her work. Despite Samuel’s age, the man’s hands were deft and sure. It seemed that he had plastered over holes and cracks a thousand times, for he knew exactly what he was doing and did nothing extraneous to the task – and yet his concentration and seriousness were such that this might have been his first time, and he was conscious of needing to do everything perfectly.

Behind Fraser, Ray was rummaging through his wallet while talking to Father Behan. ‘Here’s something for a new poor-box,’ the Detective was saying. ‘Can Samuel make it for you, do you think?’ A whisper of paper as money changed hands.

‘Oh yes,’ Behan replied. ‘This will come in very handy to pay for the materials.’

‘And, well, we caught the thief, but the money’s gone, spent already. He’s out of business, doesn’t have an income.’ Another whisper of paper. ‘He said he’ll make restitution, but it’ll take time. Frankly, if he could work it off, it might be easier all round. Anyway, I figured I’d make it up in the meantime.’

‘Thank you, Raymond. God bless you for your generosity.’

Fraser turned to see Behan slipping the money into a concealed pocket in his robes, and Ray managing to convey an embarrassed shrugging kind of nod. The Italian-American was as always very expressive. ‘Think nothing of it,’ Ray said.

‘Oh, but I do think of it, my son,’ Behan smoothly replied. ‘I think a great deal of it.’ And he led Ray off through the church. Fraser tipped his head in farewell to the oblivious Samuel, and followed his partner. The priest asked, ‘Who was our culprit?’

‘A local guy named Joey Paducci.’

Behan considered this for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know him.’

‘I reckon Frank Zuko does. He’s gotten all tied up in this somehow.’

‘ _Him_ , I know,’ Behan said in tones as heavy as Ray’s answering nod. ‘It’s a sin to wish people ill,’ the priest continued, ‘and I don’t.’ Then, as the three of them passed a confessional set into the church’s side wall, Behan admitted, ‘But if I do, I confess it.’

‘Father, Joey Paducci’s being arraigned, so I need you to come down to the station and sign a complaint.’

‘Why would I want to do a thing like that?’

‘Because if you don’t, the charge isn’t going to stick.’

‘And why would I want it to stick?’

‘Because he stole from the church.’

Behan sighed. ‘From what you said, Raymond, the man’s destitute, isn’t he?’

Ray had been walking beside the priest, but he now stopped and turned to face Behan in order to make his point. ‘Yes, he’s destitute,’ Ray said with hands outstretched in frustration, ‘but that doesn’t have anything to do with anything.’

The priest shrugged and walked off down the church. ‘Well, then… Who do you think poor-boxes are for?’

After a moment, Ray stepped closer to Fraser and fiercely whispered, ‘Why aren’t you doing the arguing? You’re usually the stickler for the letter of the law.’

‘Maybe he’s right not to press charges, Ray. You yourself said that Joey Paducci is not the bad guy.’

‘And _you_ said a crime is a crime.’

‘I did.’ Fraser waited out his friend, who soon gave an exasperated sigh and then walked off after Father Behan.

They had been standing in front of a second confessional. Fraser looked at the velvet curtains across each entrance, and the three elegant white arches over them. Tiny lights were on above the arches, which presumably signified that the confessional was in use. Respecting the privacy of this custom, Fraser followed on after Behan and Ray.

‘So, how could Mr. Paducci work off the money?’ the priest asked.

‘He’s a shoe-maker, Father,’ Ray replied. ‘Do you have any holes in your sole?’

♦

All right, Francesca Vecchio thought, she had organized everything she needed for the final skirmish of her campaign. One last task to perform, and then she would go back to the lingerie shop on Belmont to collect that piece of silky ammunition.

This wasn’t so much a task, really, as an act of contrition in advance. Seeking reconciliation with God and with her community for her eagerly anticipated sin. Francesca sat there in the confessional at St Michael’s and began, ‘Forgive me, Father, for what I’m about to do.’

With some hesitation, the priest asked, ‘This isn’t about the Mountie again, is it?’

‘I _know_ ,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve asked for your forgiveness before. But _this_ time, I’m going to do it. _This_ time –’

He held up a hand, visible through the shadows of the cane-work screen, and interrupted her. ‘Francesca, I can’t keep forgiving you in advance for something that never happens.’

Oh, that was cruel, she thought. Cruel, but fair. ‘This time, Father,’ she said quietly but firmly, ‘this time it’s going to happen. I just know it.’

♦

Ray was following Fraser up the stairs to the Mountie’s apartment. It was late afternoon, and once they’d left St Michael’s Fraser had announced that his current priority was to feed his wolf Diefenbaker. So of course Ray had driven him over, with the thought that he would then take Fraser with him back to the police station, and maybe the two humans could grab a bite to eat on the way. He was pleased to discover that at least he and Fraser were now singing from the same hymn book – and indeed the same hymn.

‘You know,’ Fraser was saying, ‘when we arrested Joey Paducci, he was terrified. I didn’t understand why at the time, but he must have been in hiding from Zuko for months. Paducci didn’t want anyone to find him, because he didn’t want anything to bring him to Zuko’s attention.’

‘Yeah. Look, I know the Lieutenant wasn’t sold on the idea, but Zuko’s got to be after Joey for some reason. Might be because when Paducci went out of business, he was behind on his neighborhood association dues – three hundred, didn’t he say?’

‘Yes,’ Fraser confirmed.

‘Or it might be because Joey made a stand, and asked Zuko for some relief. If Frankie was embarrassed by that, he’d want his revenge. Add to that the insult of stealing _his_ hundred dollars, like Huey said…’

‘I believe your theory is sound, Ray, but I’m not sure what we can do about it.’

‘What we’ve got to figure out,’ Ray said as they made a start on the next flight of stairs, ‘is what Frank’s desired outcome is. Motivation, we can guess at. Means and opportunity, we’re across. But is Zuko just after some jail-time for Joey as pay-back, or is he after something else?’

‘You know him better than I do, Ray.’

The cop let out a sigh, for it had been a long day and there was still no end to it in sight. ‘Well, at least Joey’s all right for now. The safest place for him is exactly where he is – in police custody.’

They had at last reached Fraser’s floor. As he led the way down the corridor, the Mountie said over his shoulder, ‘Though it is unfortunate in these circumstances, I don’t think we can keep a man in jail for very long without charges, Ray.’ He greeted those of his neighbors who were hanging around in their doorways. ‘Mr. Mustafi,’ he said with a polite nod. ‘Mr. Campbell.’ As far as Ray knew, this was the first time Fraser’s neighbors had actually stood still for such treatment. Until now they’d tended to turn tail and slam their doors shut.

‘Yeah,’ Ray said, ‘but as soon as Joey’s back out on the street, then if Zuko’s coming after him for revenge… I know Frank Zuko – if he means to make an example out of Joey, then we’ve got trouble.’

As they turned the final corner, the pair saw Diefenbaker waiting outside the open front door of Fraser’s apartment. Ray and Fraser came to a halt, and considered the situation. It didn’t take a police officer’s instincts to prompt wariness.

Ray asked, ‘Do you always leave your door wide open?’

Fraser didn’t deign to reply to the rhetorical question, but exchanged a foreboding look with Ray and led on.

When they entered Fraser’s apartment, they found it to be full of furniture – fine furniture, all in dark wood, ornately fashioned but not heavy in its effect. It was really quite classy stuff.

Seeing a woman in overalls carrying a clipboard, Fraser said to her, ‘Ah, excuse me. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

While she headed over to talk to Fraser, Ray went on an admiring voyage of discovery. The barren old apartment had been transformed. The woman was saying to Fraser, ‘Yeah, I’ve been making a few decisions in your absence. If you want anything moved around, speak now or forever hold your peace.’

‘I’m sorry, I think there’s been some kind of mistake,’ Fraser responded. ‘I didn’t order any furniture.’

‘Fraser, Benton – is that you?’

Ray glanced over to see the woman and Fraser both with their heads bent over her clipboard. ‘Yes,’ said Fraser.

‘You live at 221 West Racine, apartment 3J?’

‘Ah, yes. But I didn’t actually –’

‘Right,’ she said briskly, apparently not seeing where the alleged problem lay. Two men, also in overalls, had brought over a small sideboard and now waited for directions. ‘You want to make a decision on locating this credenza? We’re on the clock.’

Ray was gazing at a lovely carved wooden chair and matching table, and wishing he had a set like it at home. ‘I love your style, Benny.’

Fraser looked over at him and replied, ‘It’s not _my_ style, Ray. It’s Zuko’s.’

Oh, of course, Ray thought. Taking another look around, the furniture gained a more sinister aspect and Ray’s heart sank. Damn the man!

Impatient, the woman told the two guys in overalls, ‘The credenza goes there,’ and they placed it against the wall beneath a gold-framed mirror. To Fraser, she said, ‘The tip’s been taken care of. Enjoy!’ And she followed the other two removalists out of the apartment.

Ray had already slipped out his cell phone and dialed the station. Once he was put through to the Desk Sergeant, he said, ‘Phil, it’s Ray Vecchio. Where’s Joey Paducci?’ Which was when his worst fears were confirmed. ‘Oh, great,’ Ray said flatly. ‘All right, Phil, thanks.’ He cut the call, and told Fraser, ‘Joey was bailed out over an hour ago. He is definitely a dead man.’

‘Are you exaggerating?’ the Mountie asked.

‘Maybe. I hope so.’ The Detective sighed. ‘All Zuko wanted was for us to locate Joey for him. Forget jail-time.’

Fraser nodded, still looking about him at all the dark ominous furniture filling up his apartment. ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said heavily. ‘Those were Zuko’s words. I’d be very grateful.’

♦


	4. Four

♦

Frank Zuko was playing basketball, a game he’d loved since his school days. He was aware that his short and compact frame might be considered a disadvantage by some, but Frank more than compensated for his size by a range of other factors. A lack of height did not, after all, necessarily mean a lack of strength or stamina or speed. And it did not lessen the intelligence Frank exhibited in his use of clever tactics, and his ability to select good men for his team. Also, Frank had spent most of his life ensuring that everyone respected him and no one underestimated him – which certainly paid off on a basketball court. The game was already half-won if your opponents respected you. So much came down to attitude, as long as people knew that you were ready, willing and able to back that attitude up.

His usual buddies had met him for their Saturday game at the neighborhood’s sports center. Having generously donated funds to help build the center, Frank felt entitled to use it on a regular basis. In any case, he got a kick out of seeing the local kids get some use out of the place, too – games gave them a way of physically expressing their teenage energies and aggressions and natural competitiveness, and also gave them a taste of victory.

Frank Zuko had never lost the taste for the triumph of winning. And why should he? Right now, he and his friends were playing three against three in a seriously rough match, and it was a great deal of fun. The late afternoon sun was shining through the high windows, casting large squares of light onto the polished wooden floor. Zuko was careful not to get dazzled by that light, but he was happy enough to let it hinder his opposition.

Unfortunately the two guys on his side were playing slow and clumsy and dazzled today, when anyone would have thought that being on the right team would have invigorated them – all of which meant that once again Frank had to be the star of the show. He evaded the man who was attempting to screen him, ran forward and feinted left to foil the attempted defense, found a clear path right through to the hoop, and successfully took a shot. ‘Yes!’ Frank cried, providing his own applause and laughing happily.

The game was over, and Frank’s team had won yet again. Zuko gave a high-five to his team-mates, and patted the three losers in commiseration. Everyone was leaving the court, dragging themselves off to the showers. Slugs, Frank thought – they were all slugs with no attitude, no will to win. How had he accumulated these friends and hangers-on? Maybe it was time to find some new ones.

Dribbling the ball, Frank looked about him for suitable opposition in the meantime. Other than Charlie and the two goons he’d brought along, there was only one man left – ah, yes, the guy who had provided such woeful defense for the other team. The guy who had recently blundered in the fine art of book-keeping for Frank’s less legitimate business interests. Perhaps the poor idiot would like the chance to prove himself. ‘Kenny,’ Frank called.

The man was bending to collect a towel from the pile on the bench. Charlie was sitting there near the towels, reading a newspaper and paying very little attention to the game. One of the goons was beside him, paying rather more attention – within his own limited capacity to do so, of course. But it was only faithful old Charlie, Carl Zuko’s favored right-hand man for decades, who was allowed to get away with things like occasionally ignoring Frank.

‘Kenny!’

At last the guy straightened up and turned around, looking sweaty and exhausted.

‘Come on,’ said Frank, ‘you and me, one on one. Whoever makes twenty points first wins.’ His chosen opponent was showing no signs of enthusiasm. ‘Come on, Kenny, you old slug, I’ll spot you three.’

Kenny was still just standing there, completely defeated already.

Frank shot for the hoop and scored, then offered Kenny a shrug. ‘Three / one,’ he announced with a laugh.

At last Kenny tossed his towel down onto the bench, and joined Frank on the court. Having just scored, Zuko passed Kenny the ball – but knowing his place in the scheme of things, Kenny passed it right back. The two men faced off for long tense moments, while Frank bounced the ball from hand to hand.

Tactics were called for. Kenny was so busy watching the ball that he didn’t anticipate Frank making a break for it. As Zuko moved forward, he lifted his left elbow and it connected hard with Kenny’s face. Zuko ran for the hoop, aware of Kenny falling to the floor behind him – so he went ahead and scored the point without feeling he was under any pressure. ‘Yes!’ Frank cried, though he really would have appreciated the challenge of worthier opposition.

Good old Charlie let out an appreciative laugh at his boss’s skills and tactics. The goon beside him, and the one at the door, shook their heads in wonder.

Kenny was slowly getting up onto his hands and knees, feeling at his mouth for blood or maybe loose teeth. Zuko walked over to him, not bothering to hide a smug smile. He bounced the ball hard against the wooden floor close by Kenny’s hand, and he asked, ‘I didn’t foul you, did I?’

Still on all fours, the fellow looked up at Frank, but couldn’t meet his gaze for long. Well and truly defeated, and the guy was, like, a head taller than Zuko and really should have been better at basketball. ‘No,’ Kenny replied. ‘No, you didn’t foul me.’

‘Good.’ Zuko bounced the ball again, and it made a satisfyingly loud _whack_ that echoed back from the high ceiling. ‘Three / two,’ he said.

Frank was about to restart the game – and maybe equalize the score while the slug was still feeling sorry for himself on the floor – when the door opened and the red-suited Mountie walked in past the goon. Of course this rather dramatic entrance drew everyone’s attention. A brief silence stretched while the men all eyed each other warily.

‘Hey, Constable Fraser,’ Zuko finally cried in greeting. ‘Would you care to shoot some hoops?’

‘Oh, no.’ The fellow indicated his uniform boots, and explained, ‘No, I’m afraid that I would scuff the floor.’

‘The _floor_? Forget the floor,’ Zuko said dismissively. He threw Fraser the ball – a fast and hard chest pass. ‘Here, shoot!’

Benton Fraser was certainly quick enough to meet that little test – he caught the ball and held it loosely in both hands while considering the situation. It seemed that basketball was of great significance to both Ray Vecchio and Frank Zuko, and perhaps a game of pick-up basketball was one of the local customs and rituals that Ray teased Fraser about being ignorant of. Which meant that maybe this would be a useful way of communicating with Zuko on his own terms. While Zuko might feel he had the advantage and therefore perhaps be less guarded, Fraser knew he could give a good account of himself.

So be it. Fraser took a step back, balancing the basketball easily on one palm. He wet a finger, closed his eyes and lifted his hand to check for any drafts from windows or air-conditioning. There was a slight movement of air coming from his right, but not enough to seriously affect the ball’s trajectory. A man who’d been kneeling on the floor near Zuko climbed to his feet and backed out of the way. Fraser bounced the ball once to get a feel for it, took aim, and scored a three-pointer. Then he looked blandly across at Frank Zuko in challenge.

The challenge was accepted. Zuko said to the man beside him, ‘Hit the showers, Kenny.’

‘See you Tuesday,’ Kenny called back as he jogged out of the basketball court. He appeared grateful for being allowed to leave.

Fraser began undressing, neatly arranging his Stetson, belt and jacket on a chair over by the wall. That left him in his boots, jodhpurs, suspenders and white long-sleeved shirt, which weren’t exactly designed for playing sports but which he felt comfortable in. He walked over to meet Zuko.

‘Come on, Constable,’ Zuko said cheerfully, bouncing the ball in place. ‘I’ll tell you what – I’ll give you the first shot.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fraser, taking the ball. He was aware that the gentleman who had been standing by the door had now walked over to sit with the other two on-lookers on a bench, and Fraser surmised that these were Zuko’s bodyguards or henchmen. While the Mountie was out-numbered, he supposed there was no reason that this couldn’t be a civilized conversation and a fair game.

Dribbling the ball before him, Fraser took his position at the free-throw line. Zuko faced him, and they both crouched a little, ready to play.

‘So,’ said Zuko, ‘you and Ray are friends, right?’

‘Yes. And we often work together.’ Fraser had barely finished the words when Zuko stole the ball from him, batting it out of its trajectory and immediately running for the hoop. In his surprise, despite chasing after him, Fraser was too slow to prevent Zuko from scoring.

‘One / nil,’ Zuko declared with a laugh.

It was evident that this would not be a friendly game.

As the two of them headed back to the free-throw line, Zuko handed the ball to Fraser. And, in the easiest of tones, Zuko asked, ‘Do you like the furniture?’

Fraser found himself surprised by the man for a second time, which was rather discomforting – but he really hadn’t expected Frank Zuko to be so up-front about this small but serious matter of bribery. ‘Well,’ said Fraser, ‘it is fine furniture indeed, but there is quite a lot of it.’

‘You need a bigger apartment,’ was the response.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Wondering if that was an offer of further bribery, Fraser stood there for a moment, considering the complications of this entire situation. Absently, he bounced the ball once – then, before Zuko could suspect him, Fraser took two strides to the right and threw for the hoop. Despite Zuko quickly jumping up and trying to deflect the ball, Fraser scored. ‘One all,’ he noted.

As Zuko retrieved the ball, he asked, ‘Does Ray talk about me much?’

‘No.’ Fraser faced the man at the free-throw line, crouched and shifting his balance from side to side, ready for anything. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad you raised the topic of the furniture,’ Fraser said, ‘because that is one of the things I came down here to talk to you about.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. You see, as a police officer I am forbidden to accept gifts.’

‘Really?’ asked Zuko, innocent on the surface, but surely disingenuous.

‘Yes,’ Fraser firmly replied.

‘The officers I know never mentioned that,’ Frank Zuko said. They were both talking quickly now, passing the conversation to and fro with some assertiveness – while Zuko bounced the basketball from hand to hand, and Fraser carefully watched for him to make his move. ‘I just wanted to show my gratitude to you.’

‘I understand that,’ Fraser replied. His hands, already held wide in preparation for Zuko’s break, offered palms-out reassurance. ‘I understand.’

‘You know, Constable, me and Ray go back a long way. We used to play basketball together in school.’

‘Yes.’

‘So he _does_ talk about me,’ Zuko remarked. He ducked a little and took a long sliding step to the left, still dribbling the ball.

Shadowing the man, Fraser pointed out, ‘You mentioned the basketball matches yourself when we visited you earlier this afternoon.’ He took the opportunity to continue, ‘I do understand the intentions behind your gift. It’s just that, even if I were able to accept the furniture, the situation might end up reflecting badly upon you.’

‘On me?’ Zuko asked in surprise. And at last he jumped high and threw the ball. Fraser was unable to prevent him scoring. ‘Two / one.’

Fraser recovered the ball, and the two men circled each other while returning to the line. ‘Well, yes, it could.’ Once they were facing each other again, Fraser explained, ‘Some people might get the mistaken impression –’ and Fraser passed him the ball, Zuko bouncing it right back with some annoyance – ‘that you wanted Mr. Paducci found for your own purposes.’ Fraser headed off to his right, keeping his back half-turned to Zuko so that he could continue to bounce the ball without Zuko stealing it. ‘They might also come to think that I had somehow aided you in that endeavor.’

Zuko was shadowing him, occasionally laying a too-familiar hand against Fraser’s back. ‘I don’t see how anyone could read _that_ into it,’ he said impatiently. ‘But, hey, if it bothers you, don’t keep it. Donate it to your favorite charity.’

‘Well,’ said Fraser – and he took a shot, and scored. ‘Two all.’ As Zuko walked over to fetch the ball, Fraser continued, ‘Well, I’m afraid that would also be against the regulations.’

Backing into position at the free-throw line, Zuko maintained eye contact with Fraser as the Mountie followed him. For the moment, the son of the mobster had a rather baleful expression on his face which might be explained away by his competitiveness in basketball games. ‘You’re a hard man to thank, Constable.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You see, I don’t think you _do_ understand, because you’re not from around here. Now, Ray and me, we come from the same background. We grew up together in this neighborhood, we have a lot in common.’ Zuko leaned forward into a crouch. ‘ _Ray_ would understand what I’m trying to do here.’

Fraser said in the most reasonable tones he could muster, ‘Father Behan will not be pressing charges against Mr. Paducci.’

Exasperation flared across Zuko’s features. ‘Well, that must make this Mr. Paducci’s lucky day.’ And Zuko charged down the court in the most unsubtle of moves, his shoulder slamming into Fraser’s chest. Slightly winded, and unable to stop the man, Fraser watched as Zuko scored again. ‘Three / two.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Fraser agreed as he collected the ball and they returned to the line. ‘As a matter of fact, before Detective Vecchio –’ and Fraser again passed the ball in a bounce to Zuko, who angrily returned it – ‘could drop the charges against him –’ Fraser crouched low, and headed off to his right – ‘Mr. Paducci’s bail was posted anonymously –’ Fraser shifted back to his left, Zuko screening him all the way – ‘through an attorney.’ Quickly turning his back to Zuko and straightening up, Fraser shot for the hoop and scored, despite Zuko’s weight being thrown against him. ‘Three all,’ Fraser calmly added.

Zuko recovered the ball, obviously unhappy at Fraser’s success. He said, ‘I love this neighborhood.’ The hard tone undermined the content of his message with sarcasm. ‘We have so many Good Samaritans.’

The two men faced each other at the free-throw line, Zuko dribbling the ball very deliberately. Fraser watched him, finding the man tricky to read despite his obvious emotional reactions and motivations.

‘Next basket wins,’ Zuko suggested.

Fraser considered this. The score was even, so the idea itself was fair – but Zuko held the ball and therefore had the advantage. Despite this, Fraser agreed.

Zuko bounced the ball once. Twice – and Fraser stole it, batting it away to his left and chasing after it to gain control of the game. He ran down the court, Zuko screening him with some energy, and managed to score. Three / four, Fraser was pleased to mentally note, and the game was his.

‘Hey, foul!’ Zuko cried, turning away in disgust.

Following after him, Fraser politely asserted, ‘Actually, I don’t think that was a –’

But Zuko wanted a ruling on this decision. ‘Charlie?’

The man sitting on the bench over by the wall didn’t even bother looking up from his newspaper. ‘He fouled you, Mr. Zuko.’

Fraser let out a laugh, but there did not seem to be any point in protesting.

‘Best ref in Chicago,’ Zuko commented with great satisfaction.

So Fraser and Zuko returned to the free-throw line, and faced each other once more. Zuko bounced the ball, with the most determined expression on his face – which didn’t perturb Fraser for he knew he could match and better anyone’s resolve.

A third bounce, a fourth. And then Zuko charged forward again, his shoulder this time connecting hard with Fraser’s face.

All the resolve in the world didn’t prevent Fraser falling to the ground while Zuko ran on and scored. The Mountie lifted careful fingers to his left eye, wondering at the damage caused. It was really quite painful, though he thought the blow would result in little more than a bruise.

‘Damn,’ Frank Zuko exclaimed, offering a modicum of feigned sorrow for hurting Fraser. ‘Nice try, Constable.’ He held out a hand to help Fraser up.

Fraser accepted Zuko’s assistance, and stood. Took a breath and politely said, ‘Thank you for the game.’

The two of them headed over to the benches. Zuko threw the ball to one of the bodyguards, while the man named Charlie brought Zuko a towel.

‘You’re good,’ Zuko said to Fraser as he wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Better than those slugs I was playing with before. A man likes to be challenged, otherwise winning doesn’t mean all that much.’

‘Indeed.’

‘We’re here every Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday about this time of day – you should come and join us after work. And bring Ray. I bet he misses our games. We’d make a great team.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Fraser said, ‘Mr. Paducci is prepared to make restitution for the money he stole.’ Appealing to Zuko with both hands, he continued, ‘If that satisfies the Church, can it not –’

The man named Charlie stood there watching the conversation between the Mountie and the son of the mobster. He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with sharp eyes and a balding pate. Despite the intelligence in his eyes, or perhaps because of it, his manner conveyed an inviolable toughness.

Deciding it would not be wise to confront Zuko that directly, Fraser did not complete his sentence. He reached for his red serge jacket, and began shrugging it on.

Zuko ran the towel back over his hair, and said, ‘Constable. You’re aware of who I am, aren’t you?’

‘Well, if by that you mean have I heard the stories about you – yes.’

‘Yeah,’ Zuko continued, ‘you’ve heard the stories and let’s say they’re all true. But something you probably _haven’t_ heard is that I really do love this neighborhood. This neighborhood is my home, always was and always will be. And when somebody hurts this community then they hurt me.’

Fraser began doing up the buttons on his jacket. ‘By that logic, Mr. Zuko, you could say that if someone hurt Mr. Paducci then they hurt me.’

‘Well, then _you_ would be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, Constable.’

Letting a tiny smile curl his mouth, Fraser said, ‘I see that logic is not one of your hobbies.’

Choosing to be amused by this, Zuko laughed under his breath, but there was no mistaking the implacable threat in his manner. ‘Last chance to join the basketball team,’ he said.

Fraser lifted his eyebrows and shook his head, offering an expression of regret. ‘You and Detective Vecchio do indeed belong to the same community, and you do share a similar background. But I believe you have chosen different paths to follow, and those paths cannot and should not meet.’ Fraser caught the man’s direct gaze with his so that there could be no misunderstandings. ‘While I appreciate your gesture, I will be returning the furniture, Mr. Zuko. I have already made arrangements to have it collected from my apartment.’

Another laugh as Zuko slung the towel around his neck. In his deceptively pleasant and affable tone, Zuko said, ‘Thanks for the game, Constable.’

As Zuko walked past Fraser, the Mountie nodded a farewell and said, ‘Good day.’ Charlie had immediately followed his boss, heading out of the basketball court. ‘Good day,’ Fraser offered. One of the bodyguards passed him on his way from the bench. ‘Good day, sir.’

And Fraser was alone. As the sun began setting, the echoing room grew dim and slowly became quiet. Fraser fastened the collar of his jacket, and took a deep thoughtful breath. He had come here and he had said everything that he wanted to say, and he knew that Frank Zuko had heard all his words and all his meanings – and yet Fraser felt he had achieved nothing. He took another breath, which became a sigh.

It was time to go find Ray, and decide what was to be done next.

♦

Ray had gone to find Joey Paducci, which didn’t exactly require all his detecting skills – he had simply headed for the boarding house on Diversey, and knocked on the door of Joey’s room.

Silence greeted him, and an abrupt cessation of movement. A faint strip of light shone from under the door, and there was definitely someone in there. Ray stood to one side, just in case the occupant was one of Zuko’s goons turning the room over – though surely even the goons were smart enough not to switch the lights on while in a place they shouldn’t be. ‘Joey?’ Ray said calmly. ‘It’s Ray Vecchio. Can I come in?’

Joey gave a relieved sigh so heavy that Ray could hear it from where he stood in the corridor. The lock was dealt with, the chain slid out, and Joey opened the door wide to let Ray inside. While Ray looked about him, Joey fastened the door again.

‘Leaving town?’ Ray asked. The room was shabby though neat, and dimly lit by a few table lamps. An open suitcase waited on the bed, with a small pile of clothes beside it.

‘I’ve got to get away from here, man,’ Joey replied, beginning to layer the clothes into the case. ‘Who do you reckon bailed me out?’

Ray lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug, for they both knew it was Frank Zuko.

‘I know running gets me in trouble with the law, and I shouldn’t even tell you about it, but you know the score – I can’t stick around here. I’ve tried lying low, but he found me. Now what else do I have left to do but run?’

‘You’re right about Zuko,’ said Ray, ‘but give us a chance.’ He shrugged his coat off, and draped it over the back of an easy chair, then sat himself down with a tired sigh. ‘You shouldn’t have to leave your home, Joey, and you shouldn’t have to live like this, afraid to talk to anyone or do anything.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ the man retorted in exasperation. ‘What choice do I have?’

Ray offered, ‘Sorry. But, if you give us a chance, maybe we can put a lid on this situation before it escalates any further.’

‘How?’

‘Well, first we’re trying Fraser’s way – he’s gone to talk some sense into Frankie.’

Joey Paducci rolled his eyes and kept packing his clothes. ‘Great.’

Ray felt a tiny smile tug at his mouth. It was so rare that anyone expressed a lack of faith in the Mountie. ‘Oh, there’s no harm in letting him try. Anyway, you don’t know Fraser, maybe he’ll get through to the guy. I’ve always figured that Frank’s going to have to listen to someone at least once in his life.’

‘And if it doesn’t work?’

‘Then we do it my way.’

‘What’s your way?’ Joey asked.

Well, Ray thought, that was the problem. He had been right in the middle of this for years, and had been completely unable to make any progress against Frank Zuko. The Chicago PD as a whole seemed impotent, unable to make a useful move in this on-going situation. So Ray was kind of hoping that the Mountie, with his fresh perspective and his diligence that knew no limits, would make a difference.

‘What’s your way?’ the man repeated. ‘How are you going to deal with Frank Zuko?’

Ray stood and walked over to the window, looked down at the alley and the street. The place had been quite busy that afternoon, but now that the sun had set there was no one around. ‘Well, maybe we all put our heads together, get real creative, and dream up an entirely new third way, I don’t know.’

Joey let out another heavy breath, and returned to his packing.

‘Anyway, you won’t be in trouble with the law,’ Ray belatedly told him. ‘Father Behan isn’t interested in pressing charges.’

‘Yeah?’ Joey nodded in some satisfaction. ‘Good. I mean, I’m sorry and all. Tell him I’ll find a way to get the money to him.’

‘Don’t bother. It’s taken care of.’

Considering the cop, Joey gave another nod. ‘Thanks.’

Ray returned to the easy chair and dug through his coat pockets. ‘Here,’ he said when he found what he was looking for – and he handed the bindlestitch over. ‘We don’t need it as evidence anymore.’

Bending his head over the tool, Joey turned it about in his hands, then took the bindlestitch into a firm and familiar grasp as if about to begin work. ‘Thanks, man. I know it’s stupid, but I love what I do, I love my trade, and this was always my good luck charm. It was the first tool I ever bought when I was apprenticing.’

‘That’s not stupid,’ Ray said quietly. With a tilt of his chin, he indicated the leather waistcoat that Joey was wearing. ‘Did you make that?’

Joey smoothed a hand down the material, fingertips running down a line of stitching. ‘Yeah, I did.’

‘It’s good.’ And Ray’s tired mind floated happily back to the other piece of Joey’s work he’d seen that day – but now was not the time or place for such pleasant and distracting memories. ‘Hey,’ he said, recalling another distraction. ‘You wouldn’t know any stories about elves who made shoes, would you?’

Joey looked at Ray kind of strangely. ‘No, man.’

‘I’m sure there was one by the Brothers Grimm. You know, I figured maybe you read it to your little girl or something.’

The shoe-maker shook his head in the negative. As Joey sorted through a chest of drawers for some more clothes, Ray headed back to the window. Catching a hint of movement out on the street, he parted the lace curtains to get a better view. More by habit than design, Ray eased his gun out of its holster – though the movement appeared to just be some kid, heading harmlessly away from the hotel.

Ray turned to look back over his shoulder, and saw Joey standing there gazing at a framed photo of his daughter. Grimacing, Ray reflected that he’d lost a lot of people he cared about in his life, but at least he hadn’t gone through having a child taken from him. The photo was laid in the suitcase, along with a toy of some kind and the bindlestitch. More clothes provided a protective layer on top of these treasures.

The street outside was dark and quiet. Anyway, perhaps this was too obvious a place for Zuko to make his move. Which meant that Ray should be trying to figure out what the man would be planning instead – the trouble being that Frankie had always been smarter, in a clever and cunning kind of way, than Ray ever was.

Sighing, Ray looked around this place he’d known all his life. The cheap office buildings loomed darkly over the dilapidated houses and hotels. A few dim rectangles provided some indications of life behind curtained windows. The general store down the street was just closing up for the evening, after what was no doubt a desultory day’s trading.

‘I used to buy gum-balls over there,’ Ray said to this man who had also grown up in this community. ‘Big fat gum-balls for a nickel a piece. Now my nephew buys them for a buck fifty.’

‘That’s the price of doing business,’ Joey observed. ‘Welcome to Mr. Zuko’s neighborhood – the inflation here is a killer.’

With ominous timing, a knock sounded at the door.

Joey started, and took a step back, fear falling over his decent face. Ray indicated that Joey should stay back out of the way, and then the cop lifted his gun to his right shoulder, ready for anything as he crossed quietly to the door. Standing behind the wall for the sake of protection – though maybe the old plasterboard walls would be as little use as the wooden door when required to stop a bullet – Ray waited silently.

And at last whoever it was out there murmured, ‘It’s me, Ray.’ Fraser, of course.

The shoe-maker looked thoroughly relieved.

Ray unlocked, unchained and opened the door. Fraser waited there in the corridor for a long moment while Ray stared at him hard – but it was immediately obvious to the cop that the Mountie’s plan had not worked. Stepping back, Ray let him walk inside. ‘What did I say?’ Ray asked rhetorically. ‘Was Frankie swinging an otter over his head, or what?’ And he wandered over to slump down into the easy chair.

Fraser acknowledged Joey with a nod, and locked the door behind him. ‘You were right, Ray,’ he said, giving the cop that small victory despite the fact they’d all have preferred Ray to be wrong – though only in this one instance, of course. ‘There wasn’t much reasoning with him.’ Fraser propped himself on the chest of drawers near Ray.

‘You couldn’t dissuade him?’

‘No, Ray.’ Fraser offered them both a grimace. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well,’ said Joey, trying to put a good face on this, ‘I’ve always wanted to see New York.’ And he zipped up his suitcase.

Time to tell it like it was, Ray figured with a sigh. ‘Yeah, well, I reckon you can forget about New York, Joey. If Zuko’s got a contract out on you, he’s going to have this neighborhood sealed up tighter than a drum. There won’t be anyone who’s worth anything who doesn’t know he’s got you in his sights. You’d be lucky to make downtown Chicago alive.’

Fraser offered, ‘He could stay at my place.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ray said flatly. ‘Unless the wolf has recently learned how to catch bullets with his teeth.’

‘So what am I supposed to do?’ the man asked with understandable outrage. ‘Stay here and wait until he comes and kills me?’

Ray and Fraser both looked across at Joey as he silently pleaded with them to think of something. The trouble was that they had no Plan B. Joey turned away, nodding in defeat.

If only Fraser could have made a difference, Ray thought. It wasn’t right that the Zukos of this world held this much power. Someone really had to do something about Frank Zuko some day very soon, and the cop had been hoping that the Mountie would be that someone.

In the meantime, he and Fraser had a man they needed to get out of town. Perhaps it would come down to just driving him, though the Riviera was of course beautifully distinctive and therefore too easily traceable. Rental cars required paperwork and identification, also traceable, and all the local agencies would know who to inform if a Vecchio, a Mountie or a Paducci walked in the door with some urgent business. Any form of public transport was out for the same reason – in fact, Ray wouldn’t put it past Zuko to have goons waiting at the nearby bus and train stations. If there was any way of bypassing the passenger terminals themselves, that might be a different matter, but –

Struck with welcome inspiration, Ray cried out, ‘Jimmy Venuto!’ He stood up and rummaged through his coat pockets for his cell phone, while explaining, ‘Jimmy’s sister was in a hit-and-run accident down on the South Side, and I caught the driver. He was all over me at the time, promising me anything. Let’s hope he’s got a good memory.’

Ray dialed the station, hoping Elaine hadn’t gone home yet – but someone there would be able to get him the right number. Fraser had straightened up, and both he and Joey Paducci were watching Ray with a renewal of hope on their faces. The cop sent a quick prayer heaven-wards that he would prove himself worthy of their faith.

♦

It seemed that Ray’s idea had been a good one. He’d driven Joey and Fraser to the bus depot and clearing-house, using the back streets in an effort to avoid anyone who was watching for them, but otherwise taking a fairly direct route in order to minimize the time the Riviera was out in plain view. He was as certain as it was possible to be that they hadn’t been followed. And now the Mountie and the shoe-maker were standing off to one side listening while the cop re-acquainted himself with Jimmy Venuto. ‘How’s your sister doing?’ Ray asked after they’d quickly run through the generic greetings.

‘Oh, she’s still in rehab, you know, the doctors reckon these things take months. But she’s walking again, that’s the main thing.’

‘That’s great, Jimmy.’

‘Yeah.’ The man crossed and re-crossed his arms, unable to meet Ray’s gaze for long, no doubt uncomfortable with talking about these rather significant and personal matters. ‘She’s fine, Ray, she’s doing fine.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

The bus depot loomed dark around them. Ray had left the Riviera in the yard, out of sight from the road. Rows of buses, most of them parked and locked up for the night, stretched away to Ray’s right. Three of the coaches had their lights on and engines idling, ready to go. On Ray’s left, an open door revealed two men in the main warehouse, sorting and stacking parcels.

Ray had already told Venuto as much of the situation as he needed to know, and it was now time to get down to business. ‘Well, like I said on the phone, Jimmy, the main thing we need to do is get this guy out of town with as few people knowing as possible.’

‘I already set it up for you,’ Venuto replied easily.

‘You did?’ Ray asked with an appreciative smile.

‘Sure. Look, you just missed the bus going to Dallas, but I’ve got another one heading out for Philadelphia non-stop, leaves in ten minutes. I already spoke to the driver, and he’s fine with it. How’s that?’

‘That’s really great, Jimmy, thanks.’

‘Ray, it’s nothing,’ the man responded. ‘I figure we put your guy on here with the packages. Everybody knows you can’t board our buses in this neighborhood, you’ve got to go downtown. So we avoid any trouble, right?’

‘Right,’ said Ray.

Venuto turned and walked over to Joey. ‘So, you,’ Venuto said, finger stabbing at Joey’s chest in emphasis – ‘I suggest you just get on board, lock yourself in the john, and you stay in there until you reach Philadelphia. Then you’re on your own. Got that?’

‘Yes,’ Joey replied. ‘Thank you, Mr. Venuto.’

‘It’s the third bus down, the driver’s already there.’ When Joey nodded his understanding, Venuto tilted his chin in acknowledgment of Ray, and then headed back into the warehouse.

Ray shook the shoe-maker’s hand. ‘Good luck, Joey.’

‘Thanks, Detective.’

Smiling at this formality, unexpected after all they’d been through that day, the cop offered, ‘It’s Ray.’

‘Thanks, Ray,’ Joey amended.

‘I guess it won’t be the most comfortable trip…’

‘Hey,’ the fellow responded with a wry smile, ‘sitting in the john for a few hours is a small price to pay.’ Then he shook Fraser’s hand, cast them both one last serious and grateful look, picked up his suitcase and headed down the row of buses.

Ray and Fraser watched him walk off for a moment, and then Ray said, ‘He’ll be OK.’ The two of them began wandering over to the Riv, the cop figuring that they could at last call it a day. ‘Let’s grab something to eat,’ Ray suggested, ‘before I starve to death.’

‘All right,’ said the Mountie following along behind him.

‘We’ll have a pizza to celebrate, OK? Imagine us managing to sneak Joey out from under Frankie’s nose. That’s pretty incredible.’

‘Yes, it is, Ray.’

They had reached the Riviera, and Ray unlocked the doors. ‘Not that we didn’t have help, mind you. This is a good neighborhood. Thank God I remembered Jimmy, huh?’

Benton Fraser opened up the car’s passenger door, and caught a glimpse of some unexpected movement reflected in the side mirror. He paused, and asked Ray with a frown, ‘Didn’t you say that Mr. Venuto works all night?’

‘Yeah, he does,’ Ray replied. Fraser drew Ray’s attention in the right direction, and they both looked across the yard to see Jimmy Venuto running for his own car and climbing in. ‘Venuto!’ Ray called out as the car raced off, but it was too late to stop him. Having already lost his brief self-satisfied mood, the cop muttered, ‘No, damn it.’

This could only mean trouble that Venuto wished to avoid. Fraser and Ray broke into a run with the aim of locating and protecting Joey Paducci.

♦

Charlie was watching all this from the passenger seat of a car parked at the back of the yard. He had two of the goons with him, and had ordered another two to wait in a separate car on the far side of the depot.

Hearing these arrangements quickly made following Venuto’s phone call, young Frank Zuko had told Charlie he was overdoing things – but the older man had figured it would not be wise to underestimate their opposition. The Mountie was a man to be wary of, and there was more to Vecchio than readily met the eye. And Zuko had personally given Charlie some very particular orders, after all, that he could not afford to carry out less than perfectly.

As Vecchio and Constable Fraser ran back into the maze of buses, Charlie spoke to the men in the other car via a walkie-talkie. ‘They made us. Go!’

Zuko’s men climbed out of the two cars. There was some disgruntlement, especially from the goons who were on the other side of the buses and therefore out of Charlie’s hearing – this little operation would apparently be more complicated than it needed to be. They were only after one shoe-maker, which should be a simple enough matter. Although Paducci did seem to have gained himself some useful bodyguards. Perhaps it was no wonder, really, that old Charlie had insisted on bringing along plenty of reinforcements.

♦

Joey Paducci reached the open door of the third bus along, and looked up to see the driver there waiting for him. There was no welcome for him, but neither was there any surprise – the guy was expecting this unusual passenger.

With a sigh, Joey set a foot on the first step. Strange to be grateful for leaving his home behind, but he probably should have guessed it would all end like this. As Joey climbed up the next two stairs, the driver lifted his arm towards him –

– aiming a gun at Joey’s chest.

The shoe-maker swung his suitcase up in front of him just in time to shield himself from the bullets. They impacted with oddly quiet thuds – one, two, three – and Joey fell backwards, feet losing contact with the steps, ending up lying on the asphalt with the breath knocked out of him. More by instinct than thought he rolled off to his right, away from the open door.

‘Joey!’ someone called from nearby. Constable Fraser, perhaps.

Which meant that Joey wasn’t on his own, but he still had to get away from this guy right now – for the driver was walking heavily down the stairs.

Scuttling sideways over the asphalt, Joey Paducci slid out of sight and under the bus, his suitcase still clutched in one hand. Safe for the moment.

♦

Fraser at last reached the bus that Joey Paducci should have been on, careered around the rear corner, and ran down towards the open door. Ray was just behind him. There was no sign of the shoe-maker, but a man with a gun in his hand was heading for the warehouse at speed, apparently scared off by the arrival of the two police officers.

‘I’ll take him,’ Fraser said.

And as Fraser chased after the armed man, Ray agreed to this plan. ‘Yeah. I’ll find Joey.’

♦

Charlie saw the Mountie running towards the warehouse. Yes, Constable Fraser was his first priority.

The two goons from the second car appeared on the other side of the yard, and Charlie called to them through a gap between the columns of buses. ‘Get the shoe-maker!’ They obediently headed off to meet Mr. Zuko’s second priority.

Beckoning to his companions, Charlie set off in the direction of the warehouse, deliberately striding. Leave it to the younger men to run and fuss. Charlie had no need to rush this task.

Somewhere behind him, Joey Paducci continued to shuffle along, face down on the asphalt. He was gaining on the warehouse, which he assumed would be a safer place to be than out here in the yard – Joey knew he was making progress, because he was now under the second bus along.

♦

The warehouse was a warren of corridors and store rooms and a confusing variety of doors, some open and some closed. Any path through the building was further complicated by stacks of parcels and laden trolleys, so that it became impossible to make progress in any kind of a direct line. Fraser, however, maintained his speed at a run, dealing with the obstacles as best he could.

As Fraser came around a corner he realized he must have gained on the armed man at last, for the fellow opened fire on him. Ducking back behind the wall, Fraser estimated that he was about ten meters away down the corridor. The man had not bothered to take cover, so perhaps he knew that the Mountie was not permitted to carry a gun.

The shots had gone wild, thumping into the parcels and the far wall, and there was a moment or two of quiet. Perhaps the man had run off again, though Fraser hadn’t heard his footsteps. The two of them were unlikely to attract curiosity or assistance from either side, as the man’s gun bore a silencer, and wouldn’t have been heard beyond the confines of this space.

Taking a risk in order to gain ground on the man, Fraser broke cover and quickly rolled head-over-heels, coming to rest behind some boxes on the other side of the corridor. The man was still there, and fired again, though Fraser felt he was in little danger – perhaps the fellow was used to dealing with targets at a closer range, or perhaps he was letting his fear affect his aim.

Another moment of quiet. The man was halfway through a door, about to make a hasty exit. Fraser got to his feet and made further progress towards him – but the man fired again, and Fraser was forced to take cover behind a pile of wooden pallets.

At last the fellow turned and ran off through the doorway, heading to his right and out of Fraser’s line of sight. The Mountie stood and followed him, cautiously peering around the door and the next corner before breaking cover again.

Unbeknownst to Fraser, a second goon entered the warehouse through yet another door just down the corridor behind him, and began following the first man and the Mountie. Zuko’s goons were closing in on both their targets.

♦

Ray was searching in vain for Joey Paducci, making his way up and down rows of buses, all too aware that there was at least one other man who was also looking for the shoe-maker. The three of them had managed to avoid each other so far, no doubt more due to luck than intent. However, Ray had heard someone moving down the far side of the bus he was currently walking along. Taking a leaf out of Fraser’s book, Ray listened carefully, and surmised from the heavy purpose in the footsteps that it was one of Frank’s goons.

As was his standard procedure, Ray’s gun was firm in his hands, held up by his right shoulder, ready for anything. He reached the end of the bus, paused to draw breath and gather himself – and then stepped around the corner, quickly easing into a solidly grounded stance with his gun at arm’s length aimed and ready.

There was nothing and no one there.

With his back safely to the bus, Ray shifted across to peer around the other rear corner, and saw the goon by the side of the bus, bending down to look under the vehicle, oblivious to the cop trailing him. All right, Ray thought while casting another glance around him just in case there were other goons – all right, this is it. Again, the cop paused to take a breath and narrow his focus. After all his years on the force, Ray had his own rhythms for doing this kind of thing – he came around the corner of the bus and settled into his ready stance.

But the goon had disappeared.

Frowning, Ray headed back to check down the other side of the bus, gun aimed just in case. Nothing and no one.

Well, there was another obvious possibility. Ray crouched, one hand on the ground for balance, and bent his head to look underneath the bus’s length. Bingo – there was Joey Paducci, crawling along the ground under the next bus down. And there were the goon’s booted feet, between the two buses, stepping deliberately – he must have also located the shoe-maker, and was now simply waiting for the best chance to shoot him.

Ray stood again, and looked about him for inspiration, aware that the goon was literally and metaphorically one step ahead of him. Perhaps the cop could use another trick that he’d learned from the Mountie. Ray tucked his gun safely away in its holster, and began to quickly clamber up onto the bus’s roof.

♦

Fraser was impressed with his quarry’s determination not to be caught. Usually the Mountie had indeed gotten his man by now, but this chase still showed no signs of resolution. Of course the armed man knew that he wasn’t alone here at the bus depot, and knew that if he could reach his colleagues then they would outnumber the law enforcement officers and he would therefore be relatively safe, and perhaps that gave him adequate incentive to keep trying.

The man was running down seemingly endless corridors, pushing boxes and other impediments into Fraser’s path as he went, so that the Mountie could never quite gain on him. The next difficulty to be negotiated was a trolley piled high with cartons, which the man passed and then pulled out into the middle of the corridor. Fraser dealt with that one by simply pushing his weight through it, falling to the ground beyond the trolley amidst a clutter of boxes, and rolling over onto his feet again. By the time Fraser was up and moving again, however, the man had vanished beyond yet another corner.

While out of sight for only a moment or two, the armed man had made good use of his lead – when Fraser headed round the corner he discovered that the man had swung a door closed – and it was a clear glass door, so Fraser didn’t even have time to pick up on the scant visual clues of this latest obstacle.

Unable to do anything about the situation, the Mountie crashed through the glass, letting out a growl of protest and determination as he went.

He landed on all fours, surrounded by shattered crystals of glass. Little pains sharp and stinging indicated that he had received cuts to his hands and face, but these weren’t serious enough injuries to hold him back. Fraser stood again, and ran after the man.

The two of them were heading down a narrow hallway now, and there was finally enough open space for Fraser to be able to catch up with the man. There was a set of double doors at the end of the corridor, set with half-size windows of reinforced glass. Apparently the doors were locked, and the handles were on the other side, for when the armed man reached them he found his way blocked. Fraser was gaining on him, and the man had nowhere else to go.

But this didn’t faze him for long – the man looked about him and saw a broom standing by one wall with some other paraphernalia. He at last tucked his gun away, and grabbed the broom in both hands, hefting it high with the apparent intent of smashing one of the windows. His wild swing sent the broom’s brush into an overhead light. He didn’t break the light-bulb, for it was safely encased in a metal grill – he did, however, set the whole light swinging back and forth on its long cord.

In the event, the man had no need to smash the window. He put the broom down as soon as he saw a shadow on the far side of the door – the shadow-man was unlocking the door, lifting away the obstructions. From the movements visible through the obscuring glass, there was at least one other person with him.

Fraser had been rapidly gaining on the armed man, running down the corridor towards him at great speed, thinking that the two of them must soon resolve this. Seeing the situation change so dramatically, however, Fraser came to an abrupt halt, his footsteps heavy as he checked his own velocity.

When the door opened wide, the shadow-man was revealed to be Charlie.

The overhead light swung to and fro, casting darkness and then glare and then darkness again over this dangerous tableau. Charlie and a rather large gentleman stepped through into the corridor. Fraser was well and truly outnumbered and out-sized.

Charlie said to the armed man, ‘Get the car.’ With a conscious glance back at Fraser, the man slipped out through the door and quickly walked away.

For a moment Fraser assumed his opposition had already been reduced to two, though Charlie’s confidence in itself indicated that these two men would not be easily dealt with. But then Fraser heard more footfalls. He turned to look along the narrow corridor, and saw two more goons running around the far corner and heading towards him. Four. Four men, and no obvious means of escape, with both exits blocked.

Fraser turned back around to confront Charlie. As befitted a Mountie, he stood tall and resolute. And, for once having nothing he could work with, Fraser waited for Charlie to make the first move.

As the light continued in its unsteady arc, Charlie’s face was alternately shrouded in shade and starkly illuminated. Fraser again noted the older man’s intelligent and untouchable toughness. Indeed, perhaps this man was more of a force to be reckoned with than his boss.

Addressing Fraser, Charlie announced, ‘I’ve got a message for you from Mr. Zuko.’

A brief gesture from Charlie, and the two goons behind Fraser grabbed his arms. One held a gun near Fraser’s head, indicating that it would be unwise to struggle – Fraser reluctantly settled. Deadly trouble, and no apparent way out of it.

How would Ray live through these moments? How would his friend approach these men who harbored such serious harm in their hearts? With Ray’s usual sarcastic but honest attitude, Fraser assumed. Drawing on that, Fraser said, ‘I take it that this message is not in writing.’

The rather large gentleman stepped forward, adjusting a set of brass knuckles on his right fist. His left fist was gloved in leather.

Apparently wanting anticipation do half his work for him, Charlie let a threatening stillness stretch.

One of the goons hissed in Fraser’s ear, ‘First you, then the shoe-maker, then the cop.’

Charlie said easily, ‘We don’t touch the cop. We’ll leave him with his two friends messed up. He’ll get the message.’

And Charlie nodded once at the large gentleman, who swung his brass-knuckled fist in a heavy blow to Fraser’s stomach. Fraser would have doubled over if the two goons hadn’t been holding him up. He didn’t let a sound escape him, but the throbs of pain were not easily contained.

Another stillness stretched. Fraser pushed himself upright again.

One of the goons asked Charlie, ‘Mr. Zuko has a soft spot for his old buddy Vecchio?’

‘No. Not anymore.’

‘I think,’ said Fraser, ‘you’re underestimating how difficult it will be –’

Another nod, and another solid blow to his stomach.

When he recovered his breath, Fraser continued – ‘how difficult it will be to frighten Detective Vecchio –’

The fist slammed against his chest this time, the brass knuckles bruising his breastbone.

‘– Detective Vecchio away from what is right.’

Charlie watched impassively as the rather large gentleman laid into Fraser with no further significant pauses. No breath or thought for words any more – instead, unable to prevent it, Fraser helplessly let the pain bubble out of him in a cry.

♦

Ray ran along the roof of the bus as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert anyone to his presence. He held his gun down and to one side, aimed in the general direction of the goon. As near as Ray could estimate, Joey must be almost to the front of the second bus along by now. The goon apparently thought so, too, for he was walking carefully along the side of the bus ahead of Ray, bending over every now and then to look underneath.

Luckily the buses were parked rather close together, so Ray didn’t even think twice about it – he reached the front of his bus, and with no more than an extra oomph to his next stride he made it safely to the roof of the next bus. Not even bothering to feel pleased with himself, Ray ran on, overtaking the goon who still crept along the ground below.

♦

Another hit to Fraser’s stomach, inspiring another cry. The Mountie sagged at last, head falling forward, only remaining on his feet because he was held there.

His sole conscious thought was that one tended to forget how all-encompassing pain could be. Fraser’s whole world had contracted to the hurt of the here and now, so that he barely even remembered who was doing this to him and why. He had forgotten to fear for Joey, and his regrets for Ray’s pain and guilt were vague.

Another hit. It almost gave Fraser hope – if they were going to kill him, surely they would have done so by now. Surely they would have. While he could, Fraser clung to that.

♦

Ray reached the front of the second bus, and paused to assess the situation. Luckily that was the right move, for within a few seconds the next bus had pulled away and was being driven out of the yard.

And there was Joey Paducci – he had been crawling under the first bus, but was now left exposed for all to see.

The goon soon spotted Joey lying there on the asphalt and began moving in, his gun resolutely aimed at his quarry.

Joey quickly flipped over onto his back, and lifted his hands palm-up in a plea for mercy when he saw who was approaching him.

Praying that the goon wouldn’t fire until he was closer to his target, Ray waited for anxious moments until the guy was in front of the bus, only a couple of yards from where Joey was pinned by the aim of that gun – and then Ray leaped down on top of the goon, knocking him to the ground.

They ended up in a tangle of limbs – no doubt the Mountie would have managed the matter more neatly – but Ray’s objective was achieved. A silenced bullet harmlessly clipped the asphalt, and the goon was rendered temporarily insensible.

Ray scrambled up onto his feet, grabbing the goon’s gun while he did so and pushing it into his own coat pocket. Then he reached down to pick Joey up off the ground – for the shoe-maker wasn’t moving nearly fast enough – encouraging him with a ‘Come on, come on.’ Ray pushed Joey along before him in the direction of the warehouse, wanting to find cover for themselves – and also desperately seeking Fraser, who had been off on his own for far too long. ‘Go, go!’ Ray cried to his companion. For if the cop had just dealt with one goon, that meant maybe all the other goons here at the depot were currently dealing with Benton Fraser.

♦

Another blow to the stomach. Charlie met Fraser’s brief focus with the calmest of gazes. The overhead light still swung back and forth, adding sickening confusion to the nightmare of pain. Another blow, brass knuckles glancing cracking against his lowest left rib.

Maybe they would kill him after all. Maybe they wanted Ray to know that his friend suffered before he died. Maybe that’s what this was about.

Another blow, jarring against his face.

And Fraser discovered that he cared. He wanted the pain to end, but not if it was stopped by his death. He wanted to live, even if that meant the pain continued.

Another blow, and he fought to maintain his grasp on consciousness.

Charlie nodded again – a gesture Fraser had already learned to fear. The goon on his left grabbed a handful of Fraser’s short hair and pulled his head up. The rather large gentleman shifted even closer, intimately close – and lifted his knee to impact sharp and hard against Fraser’s jaw.

The Mountie toppled over backwards, and they let him fall. He was left there, lying heavily immobile on the floor with his legs bent under him. And maybe that was the end of it now, but Fraser hurt too much to be able to hope.

The light swung to and fro, casting bright pain at the eyes he couldn’t close.

♦

It didn’t take an Inuit to track the Mountie and the goons through the warehouse – even a Chicago cop could follow the trail of destruction. Ray and Joey ran down the twisting corridors, pushing through doors and leaping over scattered boxes. Praying they weren’t too late.

♦

The goons were filing out through the door and disappearing round a corner. But that wasn’t good, for Charlie remained behind. And apparently Charlie did not want witnesses to what he was about to do.

Charlie slid a gun out of his jacket pocket, walked closer to Fraser – one step, two, a third – and stood looming over him. The gun was raised to aim directly at Fraser’s chest. That intelligent deadly face was shadowed, but Fraser knew well enough that the older man would not scruple to do this even in the harsh light of day. Charlie cocked the gun’s hammer, and announced, ‘Here’s the message.’

Later, Fraser would hardly credit that he managed to even move – but move he did. Calling on strength he barely guessed he had, Fraser rolled over onto his front, bringing his left foot up to connect hard behind Charlie’s right knee. Charlie was forced off balance, and he fell away against the cartons stacked on his left. The gun dropped from his hands. This brief success was possible partly because Fraser had surprised the man – the roughing up had indeed been carried out partly to make it clear to Ray that his friend had suffered, but it was also done so that Fraser would be unable to prevent Frank Zuko’s message being delivered.

Charlie scrambled up, reaching for the gun. And Fraser lay there, face pressed against the cold floor, dully wondering if he had at last reached the end of his resources. He suspected that he had, though something persistent inside of him hopefully skittered around trying to dream up strategies for avoiding the inevitable.

But strategies were proven unnecessary by the arrival of the cavalry. Running footsteps from the other end of the corridor, quickly approaching. ‘Hey!’ Ray Vecchio cried out, no doubt intending to alert Charlie to the presence of the law. ‘Hey, freeze! Chicago PD!’

Fraser let the last of his resolve go with a sigh. He would be safe now.

♦

As Ray ran with Joey Paducci at his heels, he watched Zuko’s right-hand man escape through the double doors at the far end of the corridor. And Ray found that he was prepared to simply let old Charlie go for now – for Ray had other, more immediate concerns. He skidded to a halt at Fraser’s side, and crouched down by his friend. ‘Benny?’

Joey stood there, hovering over them both, no doubt worried at the still-dangerous situation they were all in.

Ray gently rolled Fraser over onto his back. ‘Benny, are you OK?’

The Mountie was alive, but that was all Ray could find to be pleased about. It was pretty obvious Fraser had been badly hurt – he just lay there unable to speak or nod or even blink in reassurance.

And Charlie had had a gun in his hand, that now lay on the floor at Fraser’s feet. Ray must have arrived just in time.

The cop looked up in the direction that Charlie and Zuko’s goons had fled. They were probably still in the yard, heading for their cars – but Ray was basically on his own now when it came to law enforcement. He wouldn’t be able to catch them up, or safely deal with them if he did. And he had a shoe-maker and an injured Mountie to take care of, anyhow.

Dropping his gaze back to his friend, Ray was just in time to see those blue eyes flutter closed. Fraser was unconscious. Ray sighed, and began carefully feeling along Fraser’s nearest arm. ‘I’m checking for broken bones,’ he explained to Joey. ‘If he doesn’t have any, we’ll risk carrying him out to the car, OK?’

‘Sure,’ Joey replied, with worried sincerity. ‘Just tell me what I can do.’

Silence as Ray felt Fraser’s other arm, and then shifted down to straighten his legs. The Mountie seemed all right, though he was no doubt very bruised, and there were cuts on his face and hands, probably from that broken glass door back down the corridor.

‘I’m sorry I got you guys into this,’ Joey eventually offered.

Ray indulged himself with another sigh. ‘Oh, don’t be. I’ve been in this all my life, or I should have been, and Fraser… Well, just try to stop him getting involved – I certainly never could.’ He looked up, and gave the man a smile. It was only a small one, but Joey seemed comforted by it. ‘Come round here and help me lift him.’

Which was when Fraser decided to wake up again. With a little help he was soon standing, and then insisting that he could move on his own. Ray, however, could be just as stubborn – so the Mountie was forced to suffer Ray’s arm around his waist supporting him throughout the long slow walk to the Riviera.

The cop thought Fraser’s look of injured pride regarding this assistance was really quite comical. And when Joey also let out a laugh even Fraser had to smile, though it soon became a wince – in response to which Ray tightened his arm in sympathy, causing a deeper wince and a great deal of good-natured grumbling.

♦


	5. Five

♦

It was a tough assignment, but Elaine figured somebody had to do it – the Mountie needed taking care of. Ray had devoted a fair amount of time to it, once he’d gotten Joey Paducci settled in the interrogation room. Hidden away in the relative privacy of the police station’s first aid room, the cop had helped Fraser out of his red serge jacket and his white t-shirt. Ray had also wrapped a haphazard bandage around the Mountie’s chest, although judging by what she’d heard of Fraser’s injuries Elaine had no idea what good the bandage would do. But then Lieutenant Welsh had called on Ray for an urgent up-date and strategy session. Which was when Elaine Besbriss – who had been guiltily lurking with concern and intent – took the opportunity of nobly volunteering to take over the assignment.

Ray cast her a wry look as they passed each other in the narrow doorway. ‘Don’t have too much fun,’ he said _sotto voce_.

‘Trust me,’ she responded in kind, ‘I will. I mean, I won’t.’

And Ray Vecchio actually paused to say very seriously, ‘I do trust you.’ Perhaps the cop was actually learning something from the Mountie, like how to be a little bit nice sometimes. ‘But I have no idea why, because thousands wouldn’t,’ Ray added. So, perhaps not. Then the cop was off, heading for the Lieutenant’s office.

Elaine peered around into the tiny room, wary of what she might see. As well she might be – somewhere between these four sickly-green walls, the Mountie was standing in nothing but his boots, his jodhpurs and a cotton bandage. But any inappropriate thoughts were soon thoroughly distracted by sympathy for his injuries. ‘Oh, Fraser,’ she murmured in dismay as she saw the mottled skin across his chest and stomach that would no doubt soon develop into the most awful bruising.

He was standing there staring into the little mirror over the washbasin, apparently examining the cuts and scrapes on his face. Elaine shut the door behind her, and walked over to him, hovering just behind one shoulder so she could look up into the mirror and see what he saw – which was indeed mesmerizing. The expression on Fraser’s face was kind of blank, though focused very intently. Perhaps he was remembering how he’d received these injuries, and recalling – if Ray’s dramatic re-enactment was to be believed – how close Fraser had been to death.

‘Fraser?’ Elaine murmured, wanting to draw the man back to the here and now.

‘Yes, Elaine?’ he murmured in turn, at last meeting her gaze through the medium of the mirror.

‘Can I clean up those cuts for you?’

The fellow was more present and aware than Elaine had given him credit for. Nevertheless, he was holding himself so still that Elaine suspected Fraser would fall over if he spared any concentration for anything other than remaining upright. Perhaps considering all of this himself, Fraser at last said, ‘I would appreciate that.’

‘Come over here, then.’ She turned away, and quickly adjusted the bench so that he could recline on it.

He walked over, accepting no assistance but moving very stiffly, and he began easing himself down to lie on the bench, grimacing as his stomach muscles protested.

‘Fists or a blunt object?’ Elaine asked, surveying that pale and generous torso. Wishing that she was seeing it under almost _any_ other circumstances.

‘One fist with brass knuckles,’ Fraser said. ‘And then a knee.’

‘Ouch. You thought about getting an x-ray done? With brass knuckles, they might have chipped or cracked a bone.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Figuring that Fraser could be relied on to judge such matters for himself, Elaine nodded. She adjusted the back of the bench down another notch, so that Fraser’s face was low enough for her to work on comfortably, and then she fetched the antiseptic liquid and a packet of cotton buds. ‘How did you get all these cuts?’

‘I ran through a plate glass door.’ He let out a tiny sigh, and lifted one hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘The rest was a result of the brass knuckles.’

‘Oh,’ she said sorrowfully, for the rest included a bad graze over his right cheekbone, and a swollen lower lip where the skin had been broken. The poor fellow must have really suffered.

Fraser had closed his eyes, perhaps reliving those memories yet again – which of course drew Elaine’s attention to his lovely long lashes. Then his tongue slipped out to explore the injuries across his lip, and he gave an involuntary little ‘Ah’ of pain.

While fascinated by that tongue-tip, Elaine figured she’d better not just stand there watching. ‘They sure worked you over.’

‘They were very thorough,’ he agreed.

‘How many of them were there?’

Fraser opened his eyes in order to respond to her. ‘More than were necessary.’

Elaine swept her long hair over to one side out of the way, and leant over him. She was standing behind Fraser now, so that his beautiful and hurt face was upside-down in relation to hers. Dipping the tip of the cotton bud into the antiseptic, Elaine decided to begin with the cut on Fraser’s mouth.

Although she touched the bud to his lip as gently as possible, Fraser grimaced and voiced a louder ‘Ah.’ No doubt the antiseptic stung badly.

‘That hurt, didn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘quite a bit.’

‘Sorry. But I need to –’ Rather than wait for his permission, she simply applied some more antiseptic. A second touch, and a third. Then she dropped the cotton bud in the bin, and collected a fresh one. ‘All right?’ she asked, just in case.

‘Well, I have to admit that you’re not quite as ruthless as my grandmother used to be.’

Smiling at this grudging compliment, Elaine dipped the new cotton bud in the antiseptic liquid. Now _there_ was an image to take home with her, and consider at length over a tub of ice cream – brave young Benton Fraser, with those lovely big blue eyes, having his boyhood wounds dressed by his business-like grandmother. Elaine hoped the woman found it in her to also kiss the child better.

Perhaps guessing at this rather personal speculation and wanting to change the subject, Fraser asked, ‘Were there any fingerprints on the hand-guns?’

‘No. And no serial numbers. What were the guns used for?’

‘One was going to be used to kill Joey Paducci, but Ray disarmed the man. The other gun was going to be used on me.’

‘Oh.’

‘Any response to the APB?’

‘No. Which is hardly surprising.’ Elaine gently pressed the cotton bud to the raw scrape on Fraser’s right cheekbone. ‘Does this hurt?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ Fraser repeated as she daubed it again with antiseptic. And, ‘Yes,’ he said as she touched it a third time.

‘What about this?’ she asked, carefully brushing the cotton bud against a wound on his chest just below his right collarbone.

Fraser did not react with the physical or verbal wince that Elaine had expected. ‘No, that’s an old scar.’

‘Oh.’ Curious, she traced it with her fingertip, carefully feeling the roughened skin. ‘How did you get it?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

A pause lengthened, and Elaine looked down at him, quite distracted by being this close to Fraser’s ridiculously handsome face.

It seemed that Fraser was embarrassed by the story behind the older scar – but he was apparently even more embarrassed to be caught avoiding the truth, and perhaps he took Elaine’s scrutiny as a reproach. He met her gaze with those beautiful candid blue eyes, and explained, ‘Someone struck me with a sea otter.’

‘Hhmmm,’ she murmured, shifting around so that their faces were right-way-up again. While maintaining the few inches’ distance between them, Elaine reached for another fresh cotton bud, dipped it in the antiseptic, and then touched it to a more recent cut on Fraser’s forehead. She commented, ‘I guess that’s what happens in a country with gun control.’

Fraser said, ‘Actually, I believe he shot the otter first.’

‘Oh, that’s just cruel.’

‘Well, yes,’ he agreed, ‘but, you see, strictly speaking he did adhere to the law…’ Finishing with the cut on his forehead, Elaine discovered that Fraser was watching her, willing to look very directly into her eyes, and certainly not avoiding her though he did seem a little flustered by her proximity. ‘…because swinging a _live_ otter is illegal in the Territories.’

‘Oh.’

‘Indeed.’

A still moment passed between them, beautifully intimate. Elaine let a silent sigh escape her. She had often speculated that the Mountie’s innocence must result from a sad combination of choice and circumstance, though she had no actual knowledge of his history to base this on – but it occurred to her yet again that the man’s innocence was certainly not born of ignorance.

Risking the gathering mood, and very aware that Fraser was continuing to watch her, Elaine moved away to fetch an adhesive bandage. She continued the ostensible topic of conversation by asking, ‘So there was nothing the police could do about it?’

‘No,’ Fraser replied as Elaine carefully positioned the bandage across the scrape on his cheekbone. ‘Although they did, er…’ Apparently it required an effort for Fraser to think of the correct words. ‘…they did change the law after that, er…’ Especially while Elaine’s fingers lingered gently on the bandage. ‘…after that, er, incident.’

The trouble was that Elaine Besbriss had long ago realized she was never going to win this man’s love. Unfortunately that didn’t stop her wanting him. And – unless Elaine was completely mistaken right now, unless she was reading this utterly the wrong way – that didn’t stop Fraser wanting her, either.

She’d let it go, though. She’d let him go. He deserved that much respect.

‘Good thing,’ Elaine said. ‘That they changed the law.’

‘It was a very good thing,’ Fraser quickly agreed.

‘Hhmmm.’ Elaine straightened up, drew a deep breath of air in, and pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. There was definitely a very strong urge right now to finish the assignment properly by kissing the man better – and perhaps in this current hurt and vulnerable and intimate mood Fraser would even let her. But she let him go. Elaine Besbriss did the difficult thing and walked away, quietly closing the door of the first aid room behind her.

♦

Ray was with Welsh in the Lieutenant’s office, the door was firmly closed against interruptions, and the two of them were trying to figure out what the hell they could do next. Usually when he’d been called in here, Ray would be standing in front of Welsh’s desk in a loose version of at-attention, sometimes with the Mountie at his side, more often than not getting yelled at for some perceived stupidity. Tonight, however, the dire immediacy of this trouble had pushed the two men beyond that boss-and-subordinate mentality. Their conversation with all its long pauses was a far more decent and comfortable and mutual thing.

During this particular lull in ideas, Welsh was pacing back and forth in front of his desk, worrying at the ring he wore on his right hand, turning it round and round his little finger. Ray had propped his rear on the edge of the desk, one hand lifted to worry at his lower lip. The Detective had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, for it had been a very long day, and the end he’d thought was in sight had abruptly receded. Who’d have guessed, Ray dully reflected, that all of this would result from the robbery of a poor-box?

Into the silence, Welsh asked, ‘Any leads on the shooter?’

Ray dropped his hand, and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve got Joey Paducci going over the mug-shots right now, sir.’

‘Good. What about the guys who roughed Fraser up?’

‘The ones who actually did the dirty work, they’d all be imported talent, that’s the way Zuko works. They’re probably halfway to California by now.’

‘Zuko…’ Welsh said, dwelling on the name. ‘I’d dearly love to tie Frank Zuko to this.’

‘We could try, but I don’t reckon we have enough, sir.’ Ray announced, ‘Fraser recognized the guy who was going to shoot him. You remember Carl Zuko’s right-hand man, Charlie? It was him.’

‘Ah.’ Welsh’s face grew a little more hopeful, and he stopped pacing to and fro.

Before his boss could get carried away, Ray continued, ‘But Charlie didn’t actually _do_ anything else, he just watched the goons beat up Fraser, so we couldn’t get him for assault. Most we could try for there is conspiracy. All he really did was point a gun at Fraser.’

‘Which in itself is a crime. And we could draw Zuko in on conspiracy, given that Charlie works for Frank now.’

‘It’s still not really enough, sir. I mean, Charlie said the shooting was a message from Mr. Zuko, but it’s not enough to make it stick. Zuko would fork out thousands for the best defense liar – and he’d say the light was bad, Fraser couldn’t possibly identify anyone for sure, it’s one man’s word against another, Fraser was no doubt concussed and delirious, there were no witnesses to Charlie pointing the gun at him –’ And Ray shrugged in defeat.

Welsh was looking at him. ‘Sometimes I think you’re in the wrong business, Vecchio. You’d make a good mouthpiece.’

‘I’ll take that as an insult, sir.’

‘As it was intended.’

But Ray could barely even summon a smile for this moment of humor. He let out a sigh, and said, ‘It’s no use skirmishing round the edges with this guy. Like Frankie said, it’s all penny ante stuff. We’ve got to get him on something big and something that will stick – otherwise he’ll make it look like harassment, and from then on we’ll always sound as if we’re crying wolf.’

Silence returned as the two men considered their options – or, indeed, pondered over whether they had any options at all. Welsh began wandering again, heading around behind his desk now.

With an effort, Ray brought his mind back to more immediate concerns. He stood and turned, so that he could follow the Lieutenant’s meanderings, and asked, ‘Can we get Paducci into protective custody?’

Welsh shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I spoke to the State’s Attorney, but they’re not going to do it. There’s no indictment against Zuko. And if we lock the shoe-maker up, we’ll have to keep him in solitary confinement for the rest of his life. If we leave him out on the street under surveillance, we eat up the entire district’s budget in thirty days.’ Welsh shrugged unhappily. ‘If we do any of the above, all Zuko has to do is wait. He’ll get to Paducci sooner or later.’

Ray let out a sigh. It was obvious that Welsh liked the situation no better than Ray himself did, but neither of them could see his way clear to any useful solution.

‘You know,’ Welsh continued as he sat down at his desk, ‘I hate to say it, but I think Mr. Paducci had the right idea.’

‘Leaving Chicago,’ Ray said flatly. ‘Leaving his home. Wonderful.’

Welsh gave him a level stare. ‘Dream up some other plan, then, Detective.’

‘Well, in the meantime, what about tonight? We can’t just throw Joey back out on the street.’

‘Yeah.’ Welsh shrugged again. ‘I’ll shuffle some paperwork, we’ll keep him in holding for forty-eight hours. I don’t see any other way.’

The trouble was, Ray knew that was the best Welsh could do right now, woefully inadequate though it was. Forty-eight hours in holding, where Zuko could get to Paducci anyway if they weren’t extremely careful – and then what? The whole damned Frank Zuko mess was so frustrating, for no one seemed able to _do_ anything. Joey Paducci couldn’t, the Mountie couldn’t, Welsh couldn’t, the State’s Attorney couldn’t. So Zuko was left free to do whatever he pleased.

Eventually Ray said, with absent but genuine gratitude, ‘All right, thanks, Lieutenant.’ And he turned away and headed out of the office. What to do, Ray pondered. What the hell to do next.

♦

Fraser had gotten dressed again without anyone’s help. He was still very stiff, and he knew that he would feel even worse the next day, but for now any movement helped stretch his abused muscles and kept them in something resembling working order.

Properly buttoned up in his dress uniform again, and with his lanyard straight, Fraser slowly headed out to the squad room. There was no sign of Elaine – and given the awful and lovely temptations he had felt while she tended his wounds, Fraser was guiltily glad about that – and Ray was conferring with Lieutenant Welsh in his office. Rather than interrupt his friend, Fraser walked along the corridor to the interrogation room, and sat down at the table opposite Joey Paducci.

The shoe-maker was diligently flipping through folders full of mug-shots. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked Fraser.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Fraser replied.

And perhaps Paducci was a sensitive man, for he simply nodded and then returned his attention to the photos and let Fraser sit there in peace.

Eventually, perhaps two folders later, Ray strode into the room. Although the cop just stood there, leaning forward with his hands on the table and looking exhausted, he seemed full of barely contained energy. Ray asked Paducci, ‘Find anything?’

Having reached the end of the folder he was looking through, Paducci closed it and lowered it to lie on the table. ‘No.’

Looking up at the cop, Fraser asked, ‘Protective custody?’

‘Best we’ve got is forty-eight hours in holding.’

Joey Paducci reacted tiredly to this disappointment, running a hand back across his hair. Perhaps the shoe-maker hadn’t really expected a miracle, but they had all nevertheless been hoping for one.

Fraser shifted forward, leaning his arms on the table between them. ‘What do you want to do, Mr. Paducci?’

The fellow offered them both a wry smile. ‘You guys know anybody with a place in the Islands?’

Returning the man’s smile with a genuine one of his own, Fraser appreciated that while they seemed to be out of options at least Joey hadn’t yet run out of humor. Ray remained serious, however. Ray remained very serious indeed. And, as Joey Paducci considered his current situation again, his decent face grew sad.

♦

Louis Gardino was under siege. He wished he could just go home and forget all about the whole damned day, but the Lieutenant had insisted on everyone staying around until this Zuko thing quietened down. Meanwhile, Jack Huey was making a great deal of mileage out of Gardino’s embarrassing slip earlier that afternoon.

‘So what are you afraid of?’ Huey was asking in his most insinuating tones. The two of them were carrying the last load of mug-shot folders up to the interrogation room.

‘I’m not afraid of anything!’ Louis automatically retorted.

‘Yeah, sure. I can smell it on you, I can see the haze of fear in the air.’

As coolly as he could, Gardino asked, ‘So why would I be afraid to admit it, huh? I mean, if it were really true.’

‘You’re afraid,’ Huey said very clearly, ‘because you’re homophobic.’

‘I am not!’ Louis glanced up and down the corridor, but luckily there was no one to overhear. ‘Anyhow, why am I homophobic just because I won’t admit that I wanted to wear ruby slippers? _Why_ does that make me a homophobe?’ he added, not even sure if that was a word, but brazening it out anyway.

Huey seemed unimpressed. ‘Well, if it doesn’t make you homophobic, what does it make you?’

Gardino just glared at the man – his partner – in angry confusion. ‘It doesn’t make me anything. I’m not afraid, and I’m not homophobic.’

‘Sure,’ Huey said lightly, unconvinced.

‘All right, fine. I did.’ Meeting the man’s gaze, Gardino stood tall. ‘OK? I admit it – I wanted to wear ruby slippers. Happy now?’

‘I don’t want to hear this.’

‘So what did you ask me for?’

‘Let’s just drop the whole thing,’ Huey suggested, beginning to walk a little faster.

‘What’s your problem? Are _you_ homophobic now? I mean, _I’ve_ got nothing to hide – I was just a kid, I didn’t know any better.’ Gardino lengthened his stride to keep up. ‘How come you were so fascinated, Jack?’

‘Drop it, Tin Man!’

‘This really bothers you, huh?’ Louis asked with some satisfaction. It seemed maybe he could get some mileage out of this, too. As the two of them reached the interrogation room at last, Gardino filed the whole silly thing away for future reference.

♦

Once Joey had looked through the rest of the mug-shots, Ray took him back down to the holding cells for the night. They’d made no progress in identifying the guy who tried to shoot the shoe-maker, which only further convinced Ray that Zuko had used out-of-town talent. There was very little hope of ever pinning him down for this one.

Ray had then brought Fraser to the cafeteria, and got him settled at one of the tables. They had the place to themselves, as it was quite late now, and the uniformed night-shift busy on the floor below had their own facilities.

The Mountie really looked awful. He was holding himself stiffly, sitting there on the wooden chair, bent over with his elbows on his knees. There were cuts and bruises all over his face, and he’d have one hell of a black eye developing atop the scrape on his right cheekbone. Ray could see the tracks that the goon’s brass knuckles had laid down.

Damn it, Ray silently protested as he headed over to the vending machines. Fraser had been hurt, badly hurt, and Ray had done nothing to prevent it, he should have been able to save Joey and get to Fraser earlier, in fact Frank Zuko shouldn’t even still be in a position to do this kind of thing anyway – and what the hell could Ray do about it all now?

‘Hey,’ he said to Fraser, ‘do you want a cup of coffee?’

‘No. Thanks, Ray.’

‘What about a cup of tea?’

A brief pause, as if Fraser was surprised by the question. ‘No.’

Ray urgently cast about him for options. ‘Hot chocolate?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

But Fraser wasn’t fine, and there was nothing Ray could do about it, nothing he could offer that would make any difference. The cop lashed out in frustration, slammed his hands flat against the vending machine, the damned vending machine that dispensed everything except what was needed – _whack!_ It rocked back against the wall, fell forward on its unstable little legs, and finally settled again after a few grumbles.

Well, that little outburst had certainly expressed some of Ray’s anger, but it didn’t really help – the rage still simmered within him unreleased and ineffectual. That misdirected little outburst.

Ray walked over to the table where Fraser waited, and dropped into one of the chairs, sitting sideways in a vain effort to avoid the Mountie’s concerned and questioning gaze. What to do next, that was still the question. Nothing he’d done had worked in the past. To be brutally honest, Ray felt that more often than not in the past he’d simply done nothing – and that of course hadn’t accomplished anything, either, except he’d let Frank Zuko get away with more and more.

Realizing he was worrying at his lower lip again, Ray let out a sigh. He didn’t need to glance over at his friend’s mouth to see it broken and swollen, hurt by those goons simply because he’d gotten in Zuko’s way. Ray shifted around to sit facing Fraser, wove his hands together and placed them on the table, considered his own fingers and thumbs and palms with a frown. These hands that had done nothing.

When Ray lifted his head to look across at Fraser, he saw his friend waiting for an explanation, no doubt surprised at the cop’s behavior. Yeah, roughing up vending machines – it was kind of ridiculous. Ray let out another sigh. Time to tell the Mountie the rest of the sorry tale of that other friend who’d been hurt by Frank Zuko. Ray leaned a little closer to Fraser, feeling the confines of the confessional falling around him, and he said, ‘Marco Matrani – the kid that Zuko worked over with the basketball?’

Fraser nodded, indicating that he remembered Ray’s story from that afternoon.

‘I didn’t tell you the whole thing yet.’ Ray closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he’d ever be rid of this memory. ‘Two guys held Marco down while Zuko dribbled the ball all over his face. There was nothing the kid could do about it. Didn’t take long before he wasn’t in a state to do anything about it anyhow. And, Benny, this thing happened, like, twenty years ago and I still remember it as if it was yesterday.’

Ray took a deep breath, which was a mistake because to let the air out again he had to swallow over a horrible lump in his throat. Remembering what he’d seen that day twenty years ago, it was all too easy to remember how he’d felt, too – and Ray did not want to give way now to teenage-style over-reactions.

‘So Marco hits the concrete, right? And the kid looks up at me with those eyes. Those eyes that say help me, call the cops, do something. But I just stood there while Zuko rearranged his face.’

Fraser dropped his head so that he didn’t have to look at Ray, no doubt ashamed of his friend and troubled by the story – but what did that matter when Ray felt shame enough to cover the entire city of Chicago? In any case, it was easier to continue without that demanding blue-eyed gaze focused on him.

‘I didn’t try to stop it. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t take the risk. I just stood there like I was watching a movie.’

Those blue eyes returned to Ray, and Fraser lifted his head again.

‘When I got home that night,’ Ray said, ‘I felt like I was eighty years old.’ He frowned at that, wondering whether anything he’d have risked by speaking out – being beaten himself, being further humiliated, being ostracized – wondering whether anything could possibly have felt worse than walking home old and burdened with troubles before his time. ‘I could never look Marco in the eye again. I should have done something, Benny.’

Yeah, Ray thought, and how many of my friends is Frank Zuko going to hurt before I finally get around to doing something now?

‘I should have done something,’ Ray repeated. Well, it was more than time for someone to deal with Frank Zuko. And it seemed that no one else could, no one else would. So maybe it all came down to Ray Vecchio. Maybe it was Ray who held the answer they’d all been looking for.

♦

Frank Zuko was at the neighborhood sports center, on his usual basketball court, wishing he could lose himself in the roughness of a proper game. Trouble was, all he had was two of the goons for company, and all they were capable of doing was passing him the ball. Stupid slugs that they were, no point in even trying to get a game going. Frank stood there at the free-throw line and shot for the hoop. The ball missed, falling an inch or two short.

The evening was not going well. Regarding basketball, Frankie was scoring a miserable average of one in three attempts. Regarding the two hits Frank Zuko had ordered, he’d scored zero – which at the very least meant a loss of face, and at the worst could mean trouble coming down. It was becoming more and more obvious that Frank just wasn’t employing the right people.

Bouncing the ball hard against the wooden floor, Zuko tried to focus. He could do this, he was in control, he was the greatest. But when he finally took a shot, the ball hit the backboard, missed the hoop, and bounced pitifully off to the left. _Wonderful_ , Frank thought, wishing that Charlie would get back here in order to suffer through some of Frank’s best sarcasm.

Sighing heavily, Frank waited while one of the goons collected the ball and passed it over to him. He bounced the damned thing again, hard. For once basketball wasn’t helping unravel the knot of anger deep in his chest.

The door opened behind him just as Frank was lining up another shot – and he straightened from his crouch, even though Frank was certain he would have scored with that one. As Zuko turned to see who it was, he opened his mouth ready to pour some thoroughly justifiable scorn on Charlie’s bald head.

But, of all people, it was Ray Vecchio walking onto Frank Zuko’s basketball court.

The two goons stepped forward, one on either side of Frank, protectively and menacingly reaching for their guns – but the cop opened up his coat to reveal that he wasn’t carrying. Frank held a hand out, indicating to the goons that they should remain cool, and making it clear to Ray who was in command of this situation.

Frowning, Frank watched Ray amble along beside the benches, his manner casual even though the cop must know very well that Frank had ordered the hits on the shoe-maker and the Mountie. The hits that had failed tonight, but were still outstanding.

‘Come on, Frankie,’ Ray said as he shrugged off his Winter coat. ‘You wanted to shoot some hoops, right? What do you say we do it now? You and me, one on one.’

‘Oh, is that so, Ray?’ Frank asked, just as easily. ‘Is that what you’re here for?’

‘Yeah, sure. Come on, you and me.’ The cop’s tones were friendly, reminding Frank of the childhood years they’d shared. There must, of course, be something else going on underneath that amiability, but Frankie wasn’t afraid of Ray Vecchio – Frank Zuko never had been afraid of this guy, and he wasn’t about to start now.

With some feigned amazement, Zuko asked, ‘You think you can take me on?’

‘Hey, I don’t _think_ , Frankie – I know.’ Ray slid off his tie, rolled it up and pushed it into a pocket, then slid his suit jacket off. In the spirit of healthy competition, the cop declared, ‘I’m going to kick your ass.’

Nothing changed, Ray thought – he’d known Frank Zuko would be a sucker for this kind of masculine bullshit. Right from when he was a kid, Frankie had never been able to resist or back down from a challenge, and it seemed he hadn’t grown out of it yet. He probably never would.

Right now Frank was quietly saying to his goons, ‘Go get me a cappuccino, all right?’

And the two goons knew no better than to take Frank’s orders, perhaps seeing little threat in this old buddy of their boss’s, this skinny cop who wanted to play basketball in his street clothes. For good measure, though, they glared at Ray on their way to the door.

Ray glanced sardonically at Frank, then followed after the goons, escorting them out. And, as if he was also in a position to give these men orders, Ray said, ‘Yeah, why don’t you get yourselves a cappuccino, too, boys? We’re going to be a little while.’ He gave the nearest one a friendly pat on the back, and then let the door swing closed behind them.

Once they were alone, Ray cast another significant look at Frankie, and reached up to slide the door’s bolt home.

As Ray began walking over to him, Frank passed him the ball – throwing it hard, though it was a long pass – and Ray caught it easily. He dribbled the ball as he drew closer, glad that he’d recently regained all his old basketball skills through challenging Fraser. ‘We go back a long way, you and me,’ Ray said to Frankie. ‘And we’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.’ He was within the three-point line now, so he threw for the hoop, and scored a perfect shot. ‘You remember Marco Matrani.’

Frank collected the ball, and dribbled it on the way back to the free-throw line. He’d left a long pause, as if he really didn’t care, and then he asked just before he took a shot, ‘Who?’ The ball bounced off the backboard and completely failed to fall through the hoop. It seemed that Frankie was off his game.

Ray didn’t even have to move – the ball was heading his way, so he coolly collected it and threw a leisurely chest-pass to Frank while reminding him, ‘Junior high, you bounced a basketball off his face until it was mush.’

‘Oh yeah, Marco,’ Frank said as he caught the ball and held it. From his tone and the wide grin, a stranger would assume that the name brought with it only fond and friendly memories. ‘I remember Marco, sure. God, we had some good times together, right?’

Responding to this old buddy routine with a smile, Ray bided his time.

‘Poor old Marco,’ Zuko was continuing. ‘You know, I heard his family moved away.’ And he passed the ball back to Ray.

Yeah, Ray reflected unhappily, and how many people had already left Chicago rather than face Frank Zuko? How many people had moved from their homes in order to avoid this man? Ray simply let the thought fuel his anger, because for now he had to remain very focused on his desired results.

Loosely holding the ball in his hands, Ray began walking over towards Frank, real slow and easy and non-threatening. ‘I heard that, too. You know,’ Ray continued, still advancing and now pointing a finger at the man, ‘even back then you owned the neighborhood, Frankie. And even then you were a coward.’

The two of them were standing close together. Ray’s friendly tones meant that the content of his statement didn’t sink in right away – but Frank’s face soon fell into dark displeasure. ‘Me? _I’m_ the coward?’ In a very quiet voice Frank shared a home truth with Ray – ‘I’m not the one who stood around and watched his friend get his face beaten in.’

Ray dropped his head, and even let out a laugh. Nodded in shamed agreement. ‘You know, you’re right, Frankie. I just stood there.’ Ray gently tossed the ball to Zuko, who instinctively caught it – and Ray followed this up with a solid right to Frank’s face.

The man’s head jerked back at the impact of Ray’s fist, and Frank fell to the floor. The ball rolled out of his hands. And Frank Zuko lay there choking, blood running from his nose. He looked up at Ray, who was ready and waiting for more – and with loudly confident anger Zuko said, ‘You just got yourself dead, my friend.’

‘Is that so?’ Ray asked, just as loud. ‘Then how come _I’m_ not the one who’s bleeding on the floor? Huh?’ He began yelling now, building it all up. ‘You want a piece of me?’ Leaning down to where he still lay, Ray grabbed Frank’s jacket in both hands, lifted the man up and slammed him back into the padded wall behind the basketball hoop. ‘Come on, take your best shot,’ Ray shouted right in his face.

Frank did nothing more than slide down the wall and onto the floor again.

‘Come on, you’re a big man, Frankie. Come on, show me.’ And when Zuko finally pushed himself upright again, Ray thought of Fraser and rammed a fist into Frank’s stomach.

Doubling over, Frank fell to his knees, coughing and gasping and grunting in protest. Once the immediate pain was past, he glared up at Ray, blood still running from his nose and smearing over his mouth. ‘You think your badge is going to protect you? You’re not real smart, are you?’

Ray hovered over him, using little more than his presence and his noise to threaten Frank Zuko. ‘Do you see a badge?’ Ray asked, gesturing to where he usually wore his shield hanging from his belt. ‘I ain’t wearing no badge, Frankie. It’s just you and me, and my hands are behind my back. Come on, take your best shot.’ And Ray literally held his hands out of the way, lifting his chin to offer it. ‘Come on…’

Frank cowered there on the floor, his hands up to ward Ray off. He was really quite pathetic, as Ray should have known he’d be.

Continuing to badger the fellow, Ray said, ‘No? No? You don’t want to? How about my belt?’ And he unbuckled the thing, slid it out through the loops. ‘You want to use my belt, Frankie? You can wrap it around your fist, and you can hit me with it.’

Ray demonstrated as he talked, winding the belt around his left hand. Perhaps this was unfair – although over the years Frank had put himself way beyond fairness. But perhaps this was unfair because Ray and Frankie both knew all too well about the damage a belt-wrapped fist could do. They’d learned that from their fathers.

‘Come on…’ Ray was yelling. ‘No? No?’ Thoroughly frustrated by the man’s utter cowardice, Ray threw the belt at Zuko, who ducked to avoid it. ‘ _Hit me with it!_ ’ Ray cried out. ‘Come on!’

At last Frank spoke. ‘How long do you think you’ve got to live, man? Do you think you’ll last the night? You are _so_ dead…’

‘I don’t see anybody in here but you and me,’ Ray said, quiet now and intense, shifting moods to further confuse the guy. ‘But I see that door –’ Ray lifted an arm to point behind him, and Frank glanced over at the door like the easily guided fool he was. ‘– and only one of us is walking out of it.’

It seemed that the only language Frank Zuko understood was the language of macho intimidation. Well, this was part of Ray’s heritage – he knew about this stuff, he could use it, he could do this – and he often did use the aggression in police-work. The trick was in not letting it use Ray himself. Ray’s father had never learned that trick. Carl Zuko certainly hadn’t, and it seemed that neither had Frankie.

‘You’re crazy,’ Frank was saying. At last the guy was pushing himself up against the wall, sliding away to his right in a vain attempt to get away.

But Ray followed him, easy, and swung a fist into Frankie’s face. The man dropped to the floor again.

‘I’m not crazy,’ Ray yelled down at him. ‘All right?’ He lowered his tone to talk reasonably, though he didn’t bother to hide his contempt. ‘I’m not crazy – in fact, I finally got smart. I should have done this to you twenty years ago, Frankie. Now, get up, you little worm.’

Ray hauled Zuko up to lean against the wall again – Frank groaned a painful protest as Ray did so. It had only taken two hits to his face to make him bleed, to visibly break and mark the skin, to ensure there would be obvious swelling and bruising the next day. Ray thought of Fraser’s multitude of cuts and scrapes and bruises, and part of him wanted to show no mercy to this guy.

Frank found it in himself to declare, ‘You’ve got yourself a problem, OK, man?’

‘No, _you_ got a problem,’ Ray retorted right in his face. He stabbed a finger through the air to punctuate the words, underlining the message with the sight of Frank’s blood spattered on Ray’s knuckles. ‘ _You_ got a problem. Because you’re going one on one with a guy you got twenty pounds on, and there ain’t nobody to hold me down.’

OK, so that had been a slight exaggeration – Ray and Frank were fairly evenly matched when it came to weight, for though Zuko was shorter he had a heavier frame – but it was all part of the masculine posturing.

Ray let his voice grow quiet to share a home truth with Frankie. ‘All you got right now is your guts, man – which means you got nothing.’

And the cop tossed the son of the mobster out away from the wall, let him slide back across the polished wooden floor.

Following after him, Ray walked easily, then bent over to pick up the basketball. Leaning down within arm’s reach of Zuko, Ray beckoned the man, indicated his own jaw. ‘Last chance,’ he offered quietly. ‘Go ahead. Take your best shot, Frankie.’

‘You can go to hell.’

Ray bounced the basketball hard against the floor, and Frank actually flinched away – because they both knew about the damage a basketball could do. They’d learned that from poor Marco. ‘I didn’t think so,’ Ray commented. ‘I didn’t think you’d be game.’ And he tossed the basketball away, letting it bounce and roll off beyond Frank – who had flinched again – then Ray began strolling away, letting Frank think that the cop had accomplished all he came here to do.

Even as Ray was heading for the benches to collect his jacket and coat, Frank remained there lying on the floor. Really pathetic. The son of the mobster said, ‘You’re not going to walk very far.’

Calling across the space between them, letting the words echo through the basketball court, Ray said, ‘Down the block’s far enough, coz.’ He picked up his jacket and started pulling it on. ‘You know, I’m going to enjoy telling this story. It’s the kind of story that people like to tell each other over and over. They mull over it, they pass it on to all their family and neighbors and friends. Say, did you hear about the day Ray Vecchio beat up on Frankie Zuko…?’

Managing to prop himself up on one elbow, Frank sarcastically commented, ‘Yeah, like somebody’s going to believe _you_.’

‘Check your face,’ Ray said, taking the trouble to explain this in suitably grave tones. ‘Everybody’s going to believe me. You’re going to find it’s pretty hard to instill fear in people when they’re all laughing at you.’

Ray picked up his coat and slung it casually over one arm. Pausing to look down at Frank, the cop let a long moment of silence drift by, making it absolutely clear who was in control of this situation. Zuko hadn’t even managed to haul himself up off the floor. OK, thought Ray, it’s now time to start the real negotiations.

‘Of course,’ Ray offered, ‘amusing anecdote though this is, I could just as easily forget all about it. You see, I’ve got one of those weird memories. I can remember things that happened twenty years ago, I can remember them clear as a bell, but sometimes I forget what I had for breakfast this morning.’ And he began strolling towards the door.

Frank blurted out, ‘Don’t.’

Hearing this, Ray stopped, and then slowly turned around to face the guy again. ‘Don’t what? Don’t tell? Is that what you want, Frankie? Do you want to make a deal with me?’ And, before Zuko could reply, Ray named his terms, speaking firmly so there could be no doubt of his serious intent. ‘All right, here’s the deal – you call off the hit on Joey Paducci, you let him open up his shop, and you leave him alone. You do that, and this never happened. It’s just between you, me and the basketball.’

At first there was no response, so after a moment Ray began walking off again. But then Frank made the mistake of muttering, ‘You go to hell.’ Sounding like a sulky brat.

Ray immediately turned and started striding back to Frank. ‘Go to what?’ he demanded. Intimidated all over again, Zuko scrambled to his feet and backed away towards the padded wall. Obviously this macho stuff was all talk with Frankie, and the guy’s only follow-through was provided by his goons. ‘Did you tell me to go to hell? Is that what you said?’ Once Zuko had his back to the wall, Ray didn’t bother advancing any further. ‘Well, that’s a shame, coz,’ Ray said in reasonable tones. ‘Because this deal is only good until I get to the door.’ And Ray turned away yet again, began walking, grabbing up his coat from where he’d dropped it.

Just as Ray reached the door, as he actually put his hand on the bolt, Frank finally cried out, ‘Deal!’

A long still silence. Ray dropped his hand, relieved but finding that he actually felt kind of sorry Frankie had agreed – because, having done the impossible in personally humiliating Zuko, Ray had been looking forward to spreading the story. Who knows, maybe Ray’s tale would have saved more than Joey Paducci, maybe the cop could have helped loosen Frank Zuko’s hold on the whole neighborhood. But that was not to be. A deal was a deal, and the shoe-maker’s life was at stake.

Slowly Ray turned around, remaining there by the door. Zuko was still pressed back against the far wall, scared even though the cop was thirty feet distant. And Ray asked, ‘Why should I trust you?’

Frank glanced away and then back again. There was an honesty and a desperation in the man’s expression that Ray hadn’t seen since the two of them were naive kids together, years ago when honor still meant something. Frank had the bravery to offer, ‘I give you my word.’

And that was brave, for Ray might now make it quite clear that Frank’s word meant nothing to him, Ray might now take the opportunity for some well-timed ridicule. However, Ray responded in the same serious and honest tones, ‘Then I give you mine.’ Because honor was about the only part of the macho stuff that wasn’t bullshit. Ray lifted his hand to the bolt again.

‘I didn’t say nothing about _you_ being safe,’ Frankie called out, belligerent in defeat.

Unlocking the door, Ray barely even paused to consider this result of the deal. He said, ‘I didn’t ask for that.’

‘I didn’t say anything about the Mountie, either.’

That almost made Ray smile. ‘Fraser can take care of himself,’ he said flatly. ‘I reckon you’re smart enough not to take him on, right? Because you know that, if anything does happen to Fraser, all deals are off, Frankie.’ Ray looked over at the man. ‘All deals are off. Including the one about me upholding the law.’

And, having accomplished all he came here for, Ray Vecchio walked out.

Frank Zuko was left there in the basketball court on his own. Eventually he pushed himself away from the wall, feeling small and hurt and empty. Fear had drained his anger away, and he sought in vain for it now, wanting the comfort of righteous fury – but, no, all he had inside was failure. Walking slow, Frank headed off towards the door, letting his head hang low but not deigning to lift a hand to touch his injuries.

Catching movement or something out of the corner of his eye, Frank looked up – and saw Charlie standing above him, up there on the walkway looking down at the court. Frank came to a halt. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked resentfully.

The old man stared down at Frankie, face hard as stone, judging the youngster and as always finding him lacking. Who the hell needed his father’s ghost haunting him and berating him, when Carl Zuko’s right-hand man was still alive and disrespectful?

‘What are you looking at?’ Frank demanded. No doubt the guy had seen more than enough of what had passed between the two younger men.

Apparently so, for Charlie left a long pause, and when he finally spoke he had contempt in his voice. ‘Nothing. I’m looking at nothing.’ And he turned and walked away, disappearing through a doorway up there.

Frank sighed, and hung his head again. Ray Vecchio, damn him to hell, just might have unwittingly won himself both sides of the deal.

♦

Striding fast, though he refused to break into a run, Ray pushed through the last set of doors and left the confines of the sports center behind. There was the Riviera, with Fraser waiting for him in the passenger seat – but, after what Ray had just done, nowhere and nobody could be considered as sanctuary.

Fraser didn’t ask if the cop had succeeded where the Mountie hadn’t – he seemed to simply assume that Ray had, which was probably fair enough given that Ray was still actually breathing. As Ray slid into his car and firmly closed the door, Fraser just asked, ‘How are you?’

Ray gave his friend the heartfelt truth. ‘Scared to death.’ He started the ignition, wanting to get out of there, just in case Frank Zuko in the heat of humiliation decided on immediate vengeance.

Handing over Ray’s badge and gun, Fraser commented, ‘That’s probably wise.’

‘Yeah,’ Ray agreed, letting out a breath. And he slipped the Riv into gear, and sped away, wondering what the hell would happen next.

♦


	6. Six

♦

Ray unlocked the front door of his home and slipped quietly inside. It was after midnight, so he’d expected everyone to be in bed by now – but he should have known better. When Ray headed for the kitchen, where a light had been left on, he found his Ma making him a cup of coffee.

‘Are you waiting up for me?’ he asked her, speaking softly because he loved his Ma and also because the rest of the house was in darkness. After Ray gave his mother a kiss, he took the coffee from her hands. ‘You’re a sweetheart.’

‘I was worried,’ she said. They both sat down at the kitchen table, and Ma Vecchio took the opportunity of running an assessing gaze over her oldest son.

‘Don’t tell me I look awful, I _know_ I look awful. It’s been a very long day, and I’m sorry to be home so late.’

‘Is everything all right now?’

‘Everything’s fine, Ma. Everything’s been taken care of.’

‘And Benton?’

‘Fraser’s fine, too. I just dropped him off home.’ Ray let himself slump lower in his chair, and took a sip of the coffee. It was very welcome – and when he tried to think back to when he’d last had a cup, Ray let out a tired laugh. ‘You know, I bought an espresso at lunchtime to take to the office with me, but that was when all hell started breaking loose, so I never got the chance to drink it.’

‘Raimondo…’

‘Yes, Ma?’

‘Raimondo, I always worry about you when you’re late home. But today… Well, today everyone began whispering that Frank Zuko was making trouble for someone. The whole neighborhood’s been worrying about what might happen.’

‘Frankie? You don’t have to worry about little old Frankie.’ Ray smiled, and reached a hand to hold hers where it lay on the table. ‘Hey, remember when we were kids, and Frankie used to come here for milk and cookies after school – and you always made the best cookies, Ma, the finest cookies in the whole world – but Frankie wouldn’t eat anything but chocolate chip?’ Pressing her hand for a moment, Ray waited for his mother to join him in smiling at the memory. ‘Well, let me tell you a secret, Ma. Frankie was a little brat then, and he’s not much more than a little brat now.’

She laughed, though it was reluctant, and then Ma Vecchio grew quiet again. ‘You should take him seriously, Raimondo. He might still be a little boy, but he has big toys to play with.’

‘I know, Ma, and I do take him seriously. I just don’t want you worrying too much.’ He squeezed her hand again, before letting it go. And then Ray remembered something vital from earlier that afternoon, something that had been driven to the back of his mind by subsequent events. With a frown he asked, ‘Ma, do you remember reading me any stories about elves who made shoes?’

♦

After sitting with his Ma for a while, Ray finally climbed the stairs to the second floor of his home, and began readying himself for bed. He rummaged through his chest of drawers for his favorite silk pajamas, got changed and put his clothes away neatly, then headed down the hall to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

By the time he returned to his bedroom, though, Ray realized he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep right away, despite going through his usual settling routine. He turned off the main light and stood at his bedroom window for a time, staring out at the late-night trains rumbling and rattling past, wondering what might happen next between him and Frankie.

After the confrontation with Zuko at the sports center, Ray and Fraser had gone back to the police station to let Joey Paducci know that he was safe now – though the two law enforcement officers only gave the shoe-maker enough details to convince him that the situation had indeed changed that dramatically. Grateful for what Ray and Fraser had already done for him, and guessing something of what Ray must have gone through to make the deal with Zuko, Joey stumbled through words of thanks he obviously thought were inadequate. Despite the deal, however, the three of them had agreed that maybe it was a good idea for Joey to remain in the holding cells for the night, just in case. While he didn’t say as much to the others, Ray certainly wouldn’t put it past Frankie to decide to simply wipe out these men who’d given him so much trouble.

The cop wondered if the mobster really did trust him not to pass the tale around the neighborhood about the day Ray Vecchio beat up on Frankie Zuko… Such a fragile thing, trust, in this environment.

Ah well, Ray reflected, whatever else happened, perhaps the vividness of his twenty-year-old memory of Marco Matrani would fade a little now. The memory would always be with him, along with a healthy dose of guilt, because it was a part of who Ray Vecchio was, for better or worse. But, after today, he’d have other memories to balance the thought of what he hadn’t done for Marco.

Letting his head drop, Ray caught sight of his badge, ID and gun where he’d left them under the bedside lamp. He walked over to sit on the side of his bed, picked the gun up, and leaned his elbows on his knees to consider the thing while holding it loosely in both hands.

With a frown, Ray reflected on how many years this gun had been his companion. How many thousand times he’d used just the threat of it for offence or defense, how many hundred times he’d fired it. How many lives he’d saved, and how very few he’d taken. It was a serious business, carrying a gun.

OK, Ray thought, guilt he was stuck with, it was part of this whole Italian Catholic heritage thing. But he could manage the fear better, he could deal with the fear, come what may. Whether Frankie would be brave enough to continue with their uneasy truce, that was another matter – but Ray wouldn’t let fear of the man rule his life. He’d learned something about that from Fraser, about just doing what you had to do, and not ignoring the fear but not letting it use you, either.

Frankie could learn a lot from Fraser, too, Ray figured – almost finding a smile within him at this idea so unlikely it was ludicrous.

Well, fear was sleeping with a loaded gun in your hand or under your pillow. Which created more dangerous situations than it resolved. Ma and Francesca didn’t need a loaded weapon around their family home, they didn’t need the harm it could cause – and Tony, Maria and their kids were here as often as they were at their own place.

So Ray was always scrupulous about following the safe procedures. He began doing that now, first slipping the clip of bullets out. Then Ray put the unloaded gun in the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and pushed the drawer shut, for it was important that the gun not be an easily grabbed threat. Ray shifted the clip from end to end in his hands for a moment, feeling it heavy with ammunition, and then placed it back on top of the cabinet. He turned the key in the drawer, locking away the gun, and lay back on his bed, contemplating the key instead.

If Zuko’s goons had the nerve to come here, and if Ray couldn’t retrieve and load the gun in time to defend himself – well, that was a far better scenario than a family member surprising him in the middle of the night, and him being too jumpy to assess the target correctly. Far far better than the kids sneaking in and getting hold of Uncle Ray’s toy.

Ray wouldn’t let the fear use him, he would ensure the gun remained as far out of harm’s way as possible. And he would live, or die, with the consequences.

Something that felt oddly like peace settled over him with a sigh. Ray pulled the sheets and quilts free, and curled up underneath them. And he barely had the time or the thought necessary to drop the key onto the bedside cabinet before sleep caught up with him and took him away.

♦

The trains grumbled past Fraser’s apartment on West Racine with much the same frequency as they did near Ray’s home on North Octavia. Living in Chicago, a person soon grew used to the endless man-made thunder of them.

Benton Fraser was sitting there on the floor with his back to his bed, reading one of his father’s journals by the light of the oil-lamp. Diefenbaker was curled up on the rug beside him. Although the wolf was strictly speaking a working animal, Fraser did appreciate Diefenbaker’s companionship and his protection. The human let one hand rest on the wolf’s throat, a finger gently and absently stroking along Dief’s jaw-line, as he continued to read.

_When I took him in, his eyes were pure hatred. As the door to the prison slammed shut behind me, I could still hear his voice and the words he spat out at me – ‘I’ll find you, Robert Fraser, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll track you down and kill you, wherever you go.’_

A slight twinge within his bruised torso distracted him from his father’s words for a moment. Fraser was wearing his red long-johns – though he’d shrugged them off his shoulders and pushed them down to his waist, for the material had chafed the skin left sensitive by the beating he’d taken. After Ray had dropped him home, Fraser had bound his own ribs clumsily though securely, having come to the conclusion that at least one of the bones must have been slightly chipped. The current twinge subsided again, and became part of the background of pain troubling Fraser little more than the rumble of the trains.

_That night in my cabin I lay there and thought about fear, and what it does to a man. How it eats his insides out, and takes the best from him._

Diefenbaker stirred, and sat up, and Fraser patted him before shifting his hand to hold the journal instead. It seemed that even the great Robert Fraser had not been immune to fear. Benton loved reading Robert’s journals for exactly this kind of entry – the son was learning about the man his father used to be, discovering the man whom the boy had never really known.

_I listened to the wind make the icefloes creak outside, and the wolves bay, and the thousand other sounds of the Winter night. And then as I listened to my heartbeat, I released the fear inside me, little by little, until it was no longer there._

Lifting his brow in surprise, Fraser considered this strategy. It seemed to be a good one.

_And then I closed my eyes and slept soundly until morning._

Benton Fraser shut the journal, considered its lessons for a moment, and put it aside. There was a new dead-bolt sitting on the bed, waiting to be fitted to Fraser’s front door. He had been intending to do this ever since the original locks first went missing, though until now Fraser had not had any real or urgent reason to do so.

Even though he said little, Ray was obviously uncertain about Frank Zuko’s next move, or whether Zuko would call off the hit on the Mountie, and Fraser respected Ray’s opinion in these matters. They would all have to be careful for the foreseeable future.

Fraser reached for the dead-bolt, and considered it, wondering if he really wanted to live with the fear and the distrust that locks implied. No, he didn’t, Fraser soon decided – and he tossed the bolt onto the floor beside him with a clatter. Or maybe, Fraser admitted, it was just too late at night, and he was feeling too hurt, to be bothered fixing the dead-bolt right now.

Having blown the lamp out, Fraser eased himself up onto the bed, and then lay down – proceeding carefully because his bruised stomach muscles made lowering himself painful. Once he’d settled onto his back, he let out a long breath and relaxed as much as he was able. He focused on his heartbeat and his breathing, waiting until both slowed a little. And then Fraser began the process of releasing his fear, bit by bit, letting it fall away into the dark Chicago night.

But there were footsteps, and the door opened, and light fell across Fraser’s face. He quickly regathered the fear, wondering why Diefenbaker hadn’t alerted him to the danger. Apparently Zuko did not propose to keep his part of the deal.

Fraser turned his head in time to see a dark coat fall to the floor. A figure was silhouetted by the light from the hallway – a rather lovely figure that probably did not, after all, belong to one of Zuko’s hitmen.

It was Francesca Vecchio, dressed in a few scatters of black lace and a great deal of bare skin. Fraser’s terror did not lessen as he recognized his best friend’s sister.

She was smiling, very focused and very determined. Though Fraser, as a gentleman, would normally be reluctant to attribute such objectives to a lady, it was relatively obvious what Francesca’s current goal was. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said.

Fraser quickly sat up, oblivious to the protests of his stomach muscles. He wondered what on earth to do.

Apparently trying to reassure, Francesca murmured again, ‘Don’t be afraid, Benton.’

Oh, but he was very afraid… It was certainly time to fit those new locks.

♦

Ray woke early the next morning, having slept well. He would have appreciated the luxury of another couple of hours in bed, sure – but it was not to be. Heaven forbid that the Vecchio home should remain peaceful and quiet on a Sunday morning! It was apparent from the general hubbub that Maria, Tony and the kids had descended on the place for breakfast before taking Ma to Mass. With a token groan of protest, Ray headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Having greeted everyone, Ray took a seat at the table amidst the bedlam, and endeavored to ignore it all. He smiled his gratitude as Ma Vecchio passed over a cup of coffee, and then two slices of toast to tide him over until the eggs were done. Much to Ray’s surprise, the toast was soon followed up by an old book, tattered and loosely bound. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘You asked about the elf story,’ Ma reminded him.

Ray broke into a grin. ‘You found it? I mean, it actually exists?’ He opened the book up to read the title page. ‘ _Household Stories_ by the Brothers Grimm. Wait until Fraser gets a look at this!’

‘You reading fairy tales now, Raimondo?’ Tony asked disparagingly.

‘It’s for a case!’ Ray immediately retorted. ‘Where did you find it, Ma?’

‘It was in the attic with some other things from when you were all babies.’

‘Babies,’ repeated Tony with a snicker.

His wife glared at him. ‘At least some of us have grown up since then.’

Trying to remain oblivious to all this domestic harmony, Ray murmured, ‘Wow,’ and flipped over to the index. There was a whole section dealing with elf stories – and when he opened the book to the right page, he discovered that the story he’d been thinking of was the very first one. ‘Hey, kids,’ he offered, ‘do you want me to read out a story while you eat your breakfast?’

‘Yeah…’ they all chorused.

‘On the condition that you finish your eggs and your toast,’ their mother stipulated.

As soon as these negotiations were successfully completed, Ray began, ‘Once upon a time there was a shoe-maker who had become very poor –’

‘What was his name?’ one of the girls asked.

‘Well,’ said Ray, ‘his name was Joey. And he was so poor that he couldn’t even take his wife out for dinner.’

The back door opened, and Francesca slunk in, bundled up in her Winter coat. She didn’t seem all that happy to see the entire family gathered in the kitchen. Ma poured her a cup of coffee, and kissed her on the cheek.

Catching a direct but rather self-conscious glance from his youngest sister, Ray asked, ‘Where have you been?’

‘Er, I stayed at Melissa’s for the night. We were watching videos.’ Francesca nodded in confirmation of this story, and then sat down, still bundled up, to drink her coffee. ‘Kevin Costner and Mel Gibson movies,’ she added. ‘Oh, and Brad Pitt, too. We were up all night.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Uncle Ray…’ one of the kids complained. ‘Tell us the story.’

Embellishing as he went, Ray continued, ‘So, on this particular day when he’d finished working, Joey found that he only had enough leather left to make one last pair of shoes –’

‘Does this have a happy ending?’ the youngest boy asked suspiciously. ‘Or a sad ending?’

‘Oh, a bit of both,’ Ray said. ‘But mostly happy. Mostly happy. So Joey used his knife to cut the leather out into the right shapes for a pair of shoes, and he left it all there on his work table with his bindlestitch, planning to get up early the next day and put the shoes together.’

‘How do you put shoes together?’ asked Ray’s oldest niece.

‘And who’s Joey?’ added Francesca.

‘Raimondo, would you like your eggs scrambled or fried?’ Ma said.

‘Hey, what the hell’s a bindlestitch?’ Tony put in.

‘Don’t talk like that in front of the children,’ Maria told her husband.

Ray looked around him at all these people whom he loved dearly, and pleaded, ‘What time does Mass start?’

♦


End file.
